What? I says. 
 Apologize, he says. Fer bein so damn ungrateful. 
 I narrow my eyes. I don't learn manners from a thief, I says. Cuz that's what you are, ain't it Jack? That's what you do to git by. 
 I might be a thief, he says, I might not be. One thing's fer certain though. I ain't the one they call the Angel of Death. 
 He knows jest where to stab me. 
 You know a book is good when the entire thing is written in a hybrid slang, has no quotation marks, and the copy you happen to own is missing half of the l's (this was a galley/proof error not related to the writing style of the first two things mentioned), yet you still find yourself not noticing after a while because the story draws you in. 
 Granted, it did take a while to warm up to the author's way of writing, but I felt the style lent a more realistic feeling to the post-apocalyptic vibe. 
 Not only was the story compelling, nervewracking, heart-wrenching, and crazy, but the characters also stole my heart. The last 100 pages had me transfixed. 
 Sign me up for the Nero fanclub. I want a crow like him now.