“I need you to do something for me.” He sounds like an old man, or if not old, then just like Dad. “Anything.” I drop into the hard, wooden chair next to his bed. “Have you ever seen him?” he asks. “Seen who?” “The man who wrote about Narnia. The man who wrote the book.” “C. S. Lewis. Yes, I do see him quite often. He walks quickly with his pipe and his walking stick along High Street and Parks Road, as if he’s always late for something.” “I need you to ask him a question.”
