At home, Joseph opened then slammed his front door, and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He tucked himself under the covers, the duvet resting on his head as he sat cross-legged on his bed, and opened the book to where the scrappy bit of paper had been left. He pulled it out—being as gentle as he could with the paper—and scanned it. It was a list. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight books. With one of them circled. Life of Pi. His book.
