I pick up the book, begrudgingly, and it laughs at me. The dark and magnificently attractive cover of The Daughters of Frankenstein taunts me with the four beady eyes, as if saying, “Give it your best shot.” I flip it open, feeling like we were in an arena. The plot challenged me, but the details made me fight back. It was the last few minutes of class, and every last detail flit past my eyes, before the final sentence breezed past me like the cold October wind. When I put down the book, it made me feel accomplished. The book was completed and temporarily, so was I.
