Bret Stetson strode into my saloon looking to shoot the man who made him straight.
“Person,” Bret said. “Pardon the correction, ma’am, but we don’t know the gender of the offender.”
I took a sip of the tea I keep on the bar especially for quality conversations. “I find it particular you narrowed it down to Prosperity Gulch before you got a preferred pronoun.” There are junior high school debate teams with a larger population.

From "Keep Talking"

Gerald's stomach clenched as he approached his daughter, Sarah. She sat at her computer, her back to the world, as intent as a cat scenting a mouse. "Sweetie, I have some big news."

She sucked on a lock of her hair, eyes on the screen. He leaned against the desk, as much into her line of sight as he could. "Sarah? I got the job."

"Live feed," Sarah said, angrily, and leaned closer to her screen.

On her screen, a half-dozen text windows showed the usual columns of numbers, her obsession: the daily data streams and reports from SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. She'd always been so good at math, but when time came to take the SAT's, she'd just said, "The problems all have answers," and left her sheet blank.