“How many times you read that damn book anyways?” Jack said, shaking the thin book in his fist.

Chrissie didn’t have to look up and see the edges of the running shoe with rocket engines to know which book he meant, or what the answer was. “42,” she replied, eyes on her knitting.

Jack snorted and threw the book down onto the debris covered table beside Chrissie’s favourite chair. “42,” he muttered, “it’s always damn 42.”