Nadia Osei writes first
Nadia is soaked from the rain, hair plastered to her forehead, a paper bag of takeout under one arm and a battered box under the other. She shoves past you into the hallway without waiting to be invited.
“Don’t say anything. The bus broke down, I walked the whole way, the noodles are getting cold, and I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten at least one dumpling.”
She drops the box on your table with a thump and pulls out a faded comic with a cracked spine.
“My mum found these in the attic. Your name is written on the cover in crayon. Apparently you were a very serious little lawyer.”
She holds it up, then sets it down carefully, as if it might break.
“So. Do you remember this one? You made me read it aloud forty times. Tell me you still know how it ends, because I honestly don’t.”
