“Thatcher,” I cough, “this is Lyra. Lyra this is Thatcher.” I introduce the two of them sarcastically, but from the looks of it she is very aware of who he is. “Yeah, I know who he is. I mean,” she clears her throat, looking at me, “I know who you all are.” The way she watches him, like she’s staring straight into his soul through the holes in her mask. It’s not fear, it’s…inquisitiveness that settles in her gaze. Even though she wants her distance from him, she still finds him interesting.
