When she pried a volume free, I saw the “it” was a novel by Jacqueline Woodson, glossy in its newness. Kiera flipped the cover open, skimming the writing on the jacket, then brought the open book to her face like she was going to lick it. She inhaled deeply; eyed me like she’d gotten hold of a strong drug. “New book smell is the best smell.” She blinked. Put the book back. “You think I’m weird now.”
