“A writer?” Conner asked. “Me?” The thought had never crossed his mind. His head instantly filled with doubts regarding the prospect, like white blood cells attacking a virus. “Yes, you,” Mrs. Peters said and pointed at him for further distinction. “But aren’t writers supposed to be super smart?” Conner asked. “Don’t they say things like, ‘I concur’ and ‘I don’t identify with the likes of this’? Those kinds of people are writers, not me. They’d laugh at me if I tried being one of them.”
