Charley has filled every spare inch of it with books. Books cascade over the surface of the desk in the corner by the window, climb in staggering towers up the walls, pack the bookshelves, crouch on the stairs. They hide in the kitchen amid the pots and pans, frame the old fireplace that hasn’t burned in years, bury the coffee table in front of the couch. I found one in the fridge once, though he swears that was a mistake.
