Ania Ahlborn

Reb called it an analogy. When Michael asked what that was, Reb said they were things people used when they didn’t know what they were talking about

Rebel wasn’t exactly known for making an effort when Michael was there to do the work.

Michael hated chasing down the ones who managed to break away, hated how he extinguished the flash of dogged optimism that sparked in their eyes. He couldn’t stand the way they looked at him, as though he’d walked in on a private moment. He despised the way their eyes grew to twice their original size and their mouths worked the air, as though chewing invisible food. He liked it better when they died in the yard, where all he had to deal with was an unblinking stare and a slashed throat. People were much easier to deal with when they were dead

Michael had never said so before, but Reb looked a lot like a bird—the kind that used their hooked beaks to pick apart roadkill. A vulture, especially when he glared, and that was something Reb did a lot.

Because when it came to true friendship, Michael had caught his brother rolling his eyes a hundred thousand times, as though Michael was the stupidest, most annoying person in the whole entire world. Misty called it sibling rivalry, and while Michael didn’t know exactly what that was, he sure didn’t like how it felt.