Steve was on the floor. He lay on his back, throwing a stuffed basketball (won at the Freedom Festival a few years ago) at the ceiling. Gar was in his office chair, ostensibly working on his physics homework.
"What rhymes with Gewrzyn?"
"What?"
"Do you think 'newer son' would work?"
"Are you writing a poem for your physics teacher?"
"Yeah. I can't figure out these last two problems, so I figured I'd blatantly suck up."
"Nice."
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