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“Not all of us,” Jacob says, “go through life in a caffeine-fueled rage, Brett.” “Hey,” Brett says, “it’s good for your stomach. The coffee burns the ulcers right off your stomach lining.”
A bookshelf takes up an entire wall of his room, with a ladder for reaching the top shelves. More books are stacked against the walls and heaped on the end tables, some of them open, dog-eared, and heavily annotated.
Twilight open on her lap.
Cayenne has set her book down on the counter and her fingers stray toward it, find the book’s hardbound edge, and stay there, touching it as if for protection.
Anna had no patience for the writers she called the “dude boys,” which meant Hemingway
and Faulkner.
