I hold out a hand, waiting. His face sours, but he retrieves the book from under the pillow where he stashed it. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he forks it over.
I’m expecting a dirty magazine or a mass murderer’s manifesto, but it’s just a flimsy paper copy of The Ugly Duckling. I flip through the pages, looking for something stashed between them, but there’s nothing.
The words are in large, bolded text. It’s the kind of easy reader book you’d give a child just learning to read. Nothing more, nothing less.
I look from the cover to Misha’s face. “We have a library if you want something else.” I don’t immediately understand the flush that rises to his cheeks. And then it hits me: “You can’t read.”
“I can read,” he snaps. He sucks in his cheeks, chewing on the insides. “I’m just… not very go
