“Cracker,” Ronan told Chainsaw. He held one out to her where she sat on her pooping-blanket on the couch. She had one eye on the desired saltine and one eye on the fire, which she didn’t trust. Every time it popped, she twitched with knowing suspicion. “Cracker,” he said again. He tapped her beak with it so that she’d pay more attention to him and less to the fire. “Kreker,” she croaked. He stroked the small feathers next to her large beak and let her have it.
