“We should probably have some sort of ranking system. Like a ten-point scale.” “Spitting water onto my floor is a one,” he said. “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I put the cup back onto his desk. “It’s okay,” he said easily. “Is one low or high?” I asked. “Low,” he said. “Killing Ambrose is a ten.” He hesitated. “Maybe an eight.” He shifted in his seat. “Or a seven.”
