“Adapt,” I told him. “That’s all I can say. If you’ve proven yourself reliable, showed that you’re willing to clean up after the dogs and take care of them without complaining, she’ll test you in other ways. That’ll be your chance to prove you’re useful.”
He sneered, looking at the girl and the boy with the scars on his face. “She’s cutting them more slack than she’s cutting Biter and me. We shouldn’t have to prove anything.”
Maybe that’s why. Maybe she feels threatened by the fact that you have powers?
“What do you do? Your powers.”
He looked up at me. “You want to see?”
Gas dogs? Nightmare miasma (the nightmares’ bark is worse than their bite, but they bark pretty damn hard)? Maybe he has to shout (”bark”) to get the full effect of the smoke out of his throat, whatever it may be.