ables.

    Theseobsessionscurledlikeparasitesthroughmybrain,andItossedandturhehardfloor.Iwokeupinthenightandstartedwritingonapad,determioridmymindofitsdarkestthoughts.Thehourspassedanddaysdriftedootheother.Forthesixmonths,Idividedmyselfbetweenthecampandthelibrary,tryingtopiecetogetherthestoryofmylifetogivetoSpeck.Ourwinterhibernationslowedmyprogress.IgrewtiredinDecemberauntilMarch.BeforeIcouldgobacktothebook,thebookcamebae.

    Solemn-eyedLuchógandSmaolachapproaasIchedafarlofoatsanddraihedregsfromacupoftea.Withgreatdeliberatioohersideofme,cross-legged,settlinginforalongtalk.Luchógfiddledwithanewshootofryepokingthroughtheoldleaves,andSmaolachlookedoff,pretendingtostudytheplayoflightthroughthebranches.

    "Go,lads.What’sonyourminds?"

    "Wevebeentothelibrary,"saidSmaolach.

    "Haventgohereinages,"saidLuchóg.

    "Weknowwhatyouvebeenupto"

    "Readthestoryofyourlife."

    Smaolachturnedhisgazetowardmine."Ahuhousandapologies,butwehadtoknow."

    "Whogaveyoutheright?"Iasked.

    Theyturheirfacesawayfromme,andIdidnotknowwheretolook.

    "Youvegotafewstorieswrong,"Luchógsaid."MayIaskwhyyouwrotethisbook?Towhomisitaddressed?"

    "WhatdidIgetwrong?"

    "Myuandingisthatanauthordoesntwriteabookwithouthavingoneormorereadersinmind,"Luchógsaid."Oghthetimeandefforttobetheonlyreaderofyourownbook.Eventhediaristexpectsthelocktobepicked.&q