“Jeb is an anchor; he holds me grounded to my humanity and compassion. But Morpheus is the wind; he drags me kicking and screaming to the highest precipice, shoves me off, then watches me fly with netherling wings. When Jeb’s at my side, the world is a canvas–unblemished and welcoming; when I’m with Morpheus, it’s a wanton playground–wicked and addictive.”
Kiersten makes a face. “This game is vile. And I’m starving.” She’s sitting next to me on our basement sofa and shifts closer to nudge my knee with hers. Kiersten lives an hour away and doesn’t usually spend her Saturdays with us, but her girlfriend is teaching in Japan for six weeks and she’s at loose ends.
“Come on, pause your ridiculously buff alter ego and get some lunch with me.”
As trees were being dragged into living rooms and tinsel was being wound around lampshades, Oleg and Emma sat at the back of their classroom whispering about how cold their ears were.
It was the Monday before Christmas.
A teacher was talking, and neither Oleg nor Emma was listening.
This teacher, however, was not the teacher that usually taught form 6Y about dead kings, exploding stars, and how to tell a million from a billion, because that teacher had fallen off a horse three days earlier. He wasn’t supposed to have been on top of a horse at all and how he managed to:
A. find a horse
B. get on it
were mysteries that remained unsolved.