“Back at the fire circle, Jinny opened the book, cradling its worn spine in one hand as she turned the soft, crumbling pages with the other. All the kids knew to be careful with the books. They were swollen, faded, eaten by the salt air and the grit of sand, not to mention so many grubby, grabbing fingers. When a book died, there was nothing to be done about it. The kids could only bury it in the sandy earth beyond the book cabin door and try to remember the story. They marked these little graves with the biggest shells they could find. It made a funny sort of garden.”
by Laurel Snyder
Loved, loved, loved this book so review to follow later this evening.