“Owen, look—Walt Whitman. Your favorite.” “Whitman’s not my favorite,” Owen said. “Too gay.” “Oh, stop,” said Genevieve, with a wave of her book-holding arm. Affenlight thought about snatching the book back, but it was way too late. “You used to love Whitman.” “Sure, when I was twelve.” Owen glanced at Affenlight. “Whitman appeals to the newly gay. He’s like a gateway drug.”
