The ones we came to call the "movie kids" were surface-scarred by their marrow-deep smugness. So completely, condescendingly in the know that they felt comfortable pontificating about "gross points" and "final cut." They breezily corrected each other about who was "A-list at Miramax," and dropped names like "Denzel" as if he had been over for dinner the night before. But when it came to asking for credentials, they were all parties to a mutual nonaggression pact. No problem, until a girl in a Joan Baez outfit started ragging on some studio for putting out a horror movie directed by a convicted child molester. "They're disgusting!" she said. "After what he did …"

A twenty-something with one of those lower-lip goatees and Buddy Holly glasses looked down his long nose at the girl, intoned, "Judge the art, not the artist," and looked to Terry for approval. Terry gave the kid a bright-white smile … a red flag to Max, who stepped between them, put his arm around Terry's shoulders, and muscled the kid over to where his mother was sitting.

Quick, before life could imitate art.

      —Only Child p. 161