“Want to steal this one too?” Wyrr asks. His tone is dry, but you can tell he isn’t really mad.

  “Maybe. Any good?”

  Wyrr pauses. “Not bad. It’s a bit overdramatic, but it leans into it, so it could be worse.”

  You look at the text. It uses a small typeface, but the paragraphs are short, with just a slightly larger than normal amount of space in between. The effect makes the page feel almost empty. “Might have to give it a try then,” you say softly.

  Wyrr looks at you, contemplative, then sets the book flat in his lap and stares out towards the school building. “It’s a funny thing, stories,” he begins. “You think up enough of a world - create enough imaginary stuff … and you can put it down on paper. Make a few characters, have them conflict with that stuff until it resolves in a satisfying way, and suddenly you’ve got a way for someone else - completely separate from you and who doesn’t share any of those same proclivities for imagination - to interact with that world and live out the lives of the people that never existed.”

  You’re silent. You don’t think he’s ever even said this many words to you at one time.

  He looks at you again, then shakes his head and continues. “You could have just asked, you know.”

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