“Sounds interesting, actually. So this isn’t a first edition? It looks pretty old.”

“No. I think maybe it’s the first from this particular publisher though. It was printed in 1920.” She turns the title page and points out the date on the reverse side. “The real British first edition is from 1818 and would be worth thousands. At least.”

“Wow.”

“You want to read it?”

“Really? Yeah. I do. If it’s your favorite, it must be good. Although I’m disappointed you aren’t a Pride and Prejudice fan. I was named after Mr. Darcy.”

Her eyes light up. “Really?”

“My momma’s a librarian.”

“I love her already.”

I laugh and her cheeks tint pink and we continue to look through her book stash.

She points out different titles along with various facts about each one and every time her face glows with delight, I fall a little more in love with her.

After a time, I put the box back in the closet—minus Northanger Abbey, which goes onto the bedside table—and we lie back down next to each other in the small bed.

“Are all of those books gifts from your parents?”

“No. I purchased most of them. I mean, with their money, so in a sense I suppose they are from them. But they don’t really give gifts. The only person who’s given me anything nonessential is my sister.”

“Your parents don’t buy you birthday or Christmas presents?”

“Not really. They don’t celebrate those things.”

“Oh. Because of their religion? Are they Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Granny is religious—she’s Baptist—but my parents are anything but. Honestly, I think they forget. They’re not home much and they tend to be real absorbed in their own lives. They aren’t bad people. They always made sure we were taken care of, had food and shelter, and whatever necessities or things we wanted whenever we wanted. It’s not like I ever went without.”

“Huh. I can’t imagine. We didn’t have a lot of money, growing up, but Christmas and birthdays were always a big deal. My mom would go all out. Special dinner and presents I had been waiting to get for months. I can’t imagine getting what I want whenever I want it. On the surface it sounds great, but the reality seems . . . kinda sad, actually. Half the fun of Christmas morning was the anticipation of getting something you’d been wanting forever.”

She’s silent again, and this time, her eyes are shut. Is she sleeping? But then she speaks. “I wish I could have a Christmas like that.”

“I’m sure you will. You’re still young. Now you get to find and make your own family. If that’s what you want, I mean.”

“Right,” she says, the word quiet in the dim room.

“What kind of present would you ask for? From Santa.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know. Probably not flowers. Something useful, maybe?”

“Like a survival pack? Full of bandages and Spam?”

She laughs. “Other canned goods might be preferable.”

I run a hand up her arm to her shoulder, tracing the lines of her, memorizing her with my fingertips, and she smiles at me.