As the sun peeks over the trees, the Reader is already up, already doing what she enjoys most. The sun rises higher in the sky, he can see the Reader totally absorbed in a new book, consumed by those written words. Her knees are pulled up by her chest and she rests the book upon them. Her green eyes are wide as if somehow that will allow her to see more clearly the word inside the book. Her eyes run back and forth across the smooth page.
Her face reflects the motion written in the story, sadness, now relief. The pages are turned so fast the story never misses a beat. The household around the Reader is waking up, the sound of the morning and smells of breakfast find their way past her closed door and into her room but not into her mind, that is far away. The reader has cleared the day of obligations, she plans only to read. She turns page after page, her face contorts and she gasps in pain as a sword cuts off the hand of a young thief. The midday sun shines into the small room and warms her skin and she can smell the flowers the girls in the story are picking.
Next to her on the small brown desk among the loose papers, pencils, drawings, and textbooks lies a stack of three library books, each about an inch and a half thick; the next three books in the quartet she is reading. The covers are colorful and each depict a scene from the book. The top one shows a young boy with a scarred face gripping a large sword. The book the Reader is holding shows two dirty hands extended to reveal a large blue gem with a thin leather strap fastened to it.
Soon after lunch the Reader finishes the second book, she snaps the book shut and picks up the third book. Holding it open with one hand she stands to find some food, the book bends easily in her hands. She wanders toward the kitchen, still in her night clothes and still reading. The story gets intense and she stops in the stairwell, unable to take another step because she is chained to the dungeon wall alongside the other criminals doomed to die. Finally the prisoners get rescued and she pushes on toward food.
Once in the kitchen she spends a couple chapters in front of the closed fridge. Finally she opens it and pulls out items without really looking. When she thinks she has the fixings for a sandwich she starts scooping, spreading and slicing the ingredients. When she’s finished, her lunch looks more like a tuna, egg, barbecue, spicy, bread casserole, than a turkey sandwich.
Four and a half chapters later she is done with her food and is sitting cross legged on a flour bag in the pantry right under the refried beans. When she reaches the last page, she reaches out for the last book and cannot find it, then she remembers that she left it in her room. She slams the finished book shut, stands and leaves it resting on top of the rice bin. As she runs toward her room, she looks down at herself, dressed in green sweats and a bright orange tank top, with an unwashed face and tangly, long dark brown hair, but she doesn't care. When she reaches her room she closes the door hurriedly, scoops up the last book from the desk and belly flops onto her bed.
The waning light causes her to strain and the book slowly migrates closer to her face until her nose is almost pressed against the pages. Soon she is forced to switch on the light. She returns to her bed but sits up against the wall and pulls her blankets up over her knees. She knows the end of the book is coming, loose ends are being tied up, questions answered. She starts reading slower and slower as the end nears. She reads each word carefully, slowly, trying to prolong the magic preserved inside the covers. Two pages left, one page, one paragraph, now only three-no, two sentences. She stops before the last sentence and closes the book.
As is her custom with almost every book she reads, she leaves the last words unread, unread, and unfinished. She says it allows the characters and the story to go on forever in her imagination, a never ending adventure.