Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Ocra knew she was lying—she could barely put her toes on the ground without wincing—but Sriracha's tone caused her to internally scoff. They hadn't known each other very long and just the thought, regardless of how transparent she'd been didn't settle with her. Her eyes narrowed slightly but she brushed it off as best she could given its lack of importance. He asked her something else, which opened her mouth, but he directed it back toward the other before she had the chance to make a sound.

Xan, he called himself, claimed not to be a dickhead and Orca struggled to keep a laugh from bubbling out.

"You kinda are a dickhead," she said, glancing back toward Sriracha. His defensive stature made him seem uncertain, as if subconsciously he knew he was a dickhead. "I don't know what crawled up your ass and died, but," she trailed off with a shrug (which hurt and she tried to fight off the twisting of her face, unsuccessfully) but with Sriracha next to her, she no longer felt threatened in Xan's presence. Whatever his purpose for his crabby attitude the night before and now not willing to leave her alone, she knew would be corrected with her friend here.