NO SEARCH RESULTS FOUND.

“‘Entitlement.’”

Still no results.

“‘Diversity.’”

Nothing.

“This is stupid, and just because I’m not finding these words doesn’t tell me what you’re claiming it does,” I say, holding out the device for him to take back. “They could all be gibberish. I mean, how do I know you aren’t just making up these so-called words?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Geeze doesn’t take the device. Instead, he grins in a way that transforms the sharp lines of his face into one that is softer. More approachable. His eyes fill with excitement as he once again lifts the lid of the wooden box. This time he pulls out a book. A paper one that looks like the ones painted on the walls of this room and not the virtual ones I read on my tablet or on the computers at school.

“Here,” he says, passing the book to me. “Try this.”

The faded red and white with blue book feels heavy and thick and awkward in my hand. I run my thumb along the rough edge of the pages as I read the title.

Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

“It’s the hard-copy version of the website you just used,” he says. “Why don’t you start by looking for ‘verify.’ The words are listed in alphabetical order, so it’ll be near the back.”

“I know how a dictionary works,” I snap, even though I don’t. Not really. On the tablet you just have to search for the word and it comes up automatically. If you don’t spell it correctly, the program will give you various options about what you might have been trying to look for. This is going to require me finding the right spelling of the word on my own.

Slowly, I flip open the cover and turn the thin, almost brittle pages until I reach the section for V words. I run my finger down the page until I land on the one I’m looking for.

ver•i•fy \ˈver-ə-ˌfī\ vt

-fied; -fy•ing

to prove to be true; to confirm; to establish the truth, correctness, or authenticity of.

I skim through the rest of the entry for the variations of the word, then flip to the front of the book to check the date. According to what I see written there, the book in my hands was printed in 2003. Decades before my parents were born.

“Try ‘diversity’ next.”

I find the D’s as he once again spells the word for me.

di•ver•si•ty \də-ˈvər-sə-tē, dī-\ n, pl -ties

state of being diverse; contrariety, variety.

“You can look them all up if you like,” he says, leaning forward. “Every word you tried on the tablet is in that book, and a whole lot more.”

Pressure builds as I methodically search the book for each of the words I typed earlier. I find them all surrounded by words I have known for years. As if they belong there. As if they have always belonged there.

“How do I know you didn’t do something to your tablet to make the words not appear in the online search?”