“It’s just like the poem says,” Sistine breathed.
“What?” said Rob.
“That poem. The one that goes, ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night.’ That poem. It’s just like that. He burns bright.”
“Oh,” said Rob. He nodded. He liked the fierce and beautiful way the words sounded. Just as he was getting ready to ask Sistine to say them again, she whirled around and faced him.
“What’s he doing way out here?” she demanded.
Rob shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s Beauchamp’s, I guess.”
“Beauchamp’s what?” said Sistine. “His pet?”
“I don’t know,” said Rob. “I just like looking at him. Maybe Beauchamp does, too. Maybe he just likes to come out here and look at him.”
“That’s selfish,” said Sistine.
Rob shrugged.
“This isn’t right, for this tiger to be in a cage. It’s not right.”