Thatcher: Your chest looks like a middle school desk. Rook: I’ve hugged cactus nicer than you. I scoff at the back of my throat. The two of them have yet to grow out of their boyish bickering. Unless someone stops it, they will go on forever until someone’s feelings get hurt, and it most definitely will be Rook’s. All of Thatcher’s feelings are tied up in Lyra. He doesn’t have any left for the rest of us.
