She’d said it again. ‘These books won’t read themselves.’ And maybe she really thought that. But Charly knew different. He knew every night, after the teachers went home, the books DID, in fact, read themselves. And each other. When they read each other, it was always slightly erotic and wrong. They exchanged information like porn stars in one of those films where they don’t wear rubbers. It was, Charly found, a bit stressful. And made him hesitant to open the books during the day, because he knew what they’d been up to the night before. Wordsex. So much of it.