Milan looked at his own ball, lumpy and misshapen, and then at Raphael’s, which was perfectly round. “Yours is perfect. Can I see it?” he asked, holding one of his hands out. Raphael, being an utter fool, handed him the snowball. Milan grinned evilly, and Raphael only had time to widen his eyes and shield his face before he was being pelted by snowballs—and Milan did not hit lightly. “Die, rascal! Perish under my might!” Milan crowed, scooping down to grab more snow before running away, the dogs chasing after him.
