The Search for Artemis - By P. D. Griffith Page 0,2

was during dinner. Not because they were eating, but because Mr. Wicker liked it that way.

“Can you get me another beer and bring the pan over here?” Mr. Wicker asked after slurping down the last drop of his lager. “I want some more.”

Landon’s mother got up from the table and walked over to the refrigerator. After opening the door and standing there for a while, bent over, moving pieces of Tupperware and vegetables out of the way, she asked hesitantly, “How about some milk?” She kept her head turned toward the inside of the refrigerator, clearly dreading what came next.

“Milk? Why in hell would I want milk?” Mr. Wicker asked, evenly. “What are you waiting for? Get some in there now. And you better hope they get cold quick.”

He sat in his seat, waving his empty beer can in the air, utter disgust emanating from his exaggerated scowl. “Look at me!” Landon’s mom turned her head toward Mr. Wicker. The next words he spoke extra slowly, making sure Mrs. Wicker understood every syllable. “You better get some beer in there now, grab that pan, put more food on my plate and do it fast. Before I get angry.”

Mrs. Wicker grabbed a new case of beer out of the cabinet below the sink and unpacked the cans, putting them in the fridge to cool down. She shoved two cans in the ice bucket in the freezer in hopes they would get cold before Mr. Wicker’s patience ran out. Then, she threw the empty box in the trash bin, picked up the pan of stroganoff by its handle, and walked across the room to Mr. Wicker’s seat. She spooned some more onto his plate, set the pan on a trivet on the dinner table, and returned to her seat. The room became silent once again.

When Landon finished, he got up and brought his plate to the sink to rinse off.

“Landon, I think it’s time for you to read a book,” his mom said.

“But it’s too hot to read. It’s too hot to do anything,” he mumbled under his breath as he turned toward the sink.

“Landon, I said it’s time for you to read a book.”

Landon couldn’t think of any rebuttal. He turned off the faucet, admitted defeat and headed out of the dining area. After his bedroom door shut, he heard the murmur of his father’s voice as he started to yell at his mother.

Back in his room, Landon turned on the reading light next to his bed, blindly pulled the first book off of his To-Read stack and flopped back down on the mattress. He examined the book: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. There was water damage on its cover in a perfect circle, exactly the size of a beer can. Mr. Wicker apparently used the book as a coaster at one time.

Landon opened up the book to a random page and stuck his nose into the middle seam, taking a big whiff of the pages. He loved the smell of books, particularly old ones. There was something about them. They all smelled different, which perplexed him, and he wasn’t sure why he liked it so much. Was it the ink, the paper, or the smell of literary sweat and tears? He had no idea, but he knew he liked it, and he knew that textbooks didn’t possess the same olfactory appeal. This book had a somewhat sour smell. It reminded him of milk on the last day before it goes bad. But it also smelled like pecans and walnuts. It smelled perfect.

Landon decided to obey his mother’s wishes and turned back to the front page.

After about a half hour or so, his mind began to wander. The words started blurring together and his eyelids became heavy. He tried to pay attention, but no matter how much he focused, he couldn’t concentrate on the page. Eventually, his head became too heavy to hold up, and he decided to prop it up on his arm.

• • • • •

Thump.

“Ah! I’m reading! Wha—?”

Landon confusedly looked around his room. Nothing was out of the ordinary, just him lying on his bed. He glanced down and noticed the stream of drool that ran over his arm. David Copperfield laid open, pinned between him and the mattress. How long had he been asleep?

He could still hear his father screaming in the living room. As usual, he couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he could tell he was mad. Even though the place was small, his