“Despite the cramped conditions and the dampness, Connor’s mother had made the place into one of the coziest homes I’d ever been in. The whole house smelled like fresh bread and cookies when I arrived, and Connor’s mother was cutting up a tray of homemade shortbread. “Here you go,” she said, carefully arranging the shortbread on a plate. “Connor’s upstairs. I’ll bring you up some tea in a sec.” “Thanks, Mrs. Penrose,” I said, taking the plate and heading up the stairs. The door was wide open and... Connor was sitting on his bed reading a Simpsons comic. “Working hard?” I said, clearing off a space on his desk for the shortbread. “My brain is aching.” He tossed the comic on the floor. Connor’s room was its usual mess. His desk was covered with textbooks, an ancient computer, a pile of overdue library books, and a collection of empty water glasses and coffee mugs. Discarded clothes were strewn across the floor, and a poster of a rock band I’d never heard of hung from his bedroom wall by a single pin.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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