Spread out across the table are at least twenty of Dex’s pencil drawings. The image of us at the treehouse is on top of a scattered pile. There’s more—all four of us at a lake, Dex is pushing me in, Shin yelling something, and Kepler with a broad smile. There’s one I’ve never seen before with Kepler and I huddled over that old telescope. And, holy fuck, the way he’s looking at me in Dex’s drawing. How did I never see it? Even with the way he’s so enigmatic and baffling, I should have seen it. Our history is laid out before them. All that we are in Dex’s smooth, detailed pencil strokes. So
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