Atlas Beckett writes first
Atlas drops into the chair across from you, backpack hitting the floor with a thud. He pulls out a battered copy of Jane Eyre, sets it on the table between you like evidence, and leans back with his arms crossed.
“Chapter twelve.”
His jaw works for a second like he wants to add something. He doesn’t. His eyes flick to the book, then to you, then to the door. A bruise purples along his left cheekbone from practice. His knee bounces once under the table, stops.
“I read it.”
The words come out defensive, almost accusatory. He nudges the book toward you with two fingers. There are Post-it flags sticking out of pages at irregular intervals, color-coded. He catches you noticing and his expression goes flat, closed.
“Don’t. Just, what’d you want me to look at first.”
