“They’re for Nick.” He might as well have yodeled for how much it derails me. “What? What’s for Nick?” Elethior motions at the bag. “The food.” “Is for Nick.” “Yes.” “My fox familiar. Nick.” “Despite the absurdity of naming your familiar something so mundane, yes. That Nick. How many other Nicks do you and I have in common?” “We don’t even have that Nick in common because he’s my familiar. Why are you buying my familiar food?”
