But Peter’s right, she’s not pretty, that word is too small. She is not like the girls I used to stare at, all bend and curve and softness. She is small but strong, and her bright eyes demand attention. Looking at her is like waking up.I throw the knife, keeping my eyes on hers. It sticks in the board near her cheek. My hands shake with relief. Her eyes close, so I know I need to remind her again of herselflessness. “You about done, Stiff?” I say. Stiff. That’s why you’re strong, get it? She looks angry. “No.”Why on earth would she get it? She can’t read minds, for God’s sake. “Eyes open, then,” I say, tapping the skin between my eyebrows. I don’t really need her eyes to be on mine, but I feel better when they are.