“I—” He stops, his throat working as he finds the words. “I feel things sometimes, I think. They’re these physical reactions to certain situations, but I can never identify them.” He’d been conditioned so long he can’t even tell what his emotions are. Thatcher lived most of his life killing and shutting out feelings—of course he doesn’t know what they feel like. “Okay, so tell me what they feel like to you.” A deep V creases his forehead. “What do you mean?” I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. It’s a little funny that the know-it-all is so lost.
