I did.

*That's good, though, a safer subject, one that doesn't make him want to slam his face into the table just to stop him thinking about things. One that'll serve as an outlet for the tangled mess of awful he's feeling, the sick weight he's carrying around with him now. Peter swallows a gulp of cider hard past the lump in his throat and sets it down on the table, a little too hard.*

It's fucking absurd. I don't know what they're playing at.