The Boy Who Loved The Sun

For some time, Dagon stares at me with a blank expression before snapping out of that trance. His face scrunched up in disgust. “Let me guess,” he starts, “the shit-filled sewers.”

“How did you guess?”

“It’s absolutely not a cliché escape plan in every book I’ve read that involves people trying to escape.”

“Well,” I shrug, “this is the first time out of all my escape plans that involve the sewers. It may not be as cliché as you think.”

“In real life, maybe not, but in books, it absolutely is.”

“Well, then you read shitty books.”

“Don’t you dare insult my taste in books!” he grumbles, crossing his arms like he is insulted. “You name a story that doesn’t include a sewer escape.”

“I can name plenty,” I shrug. “My favorite is the story my Dad used to read to me before bed. It is about a boy who loved the sun.” Dagon’s expression relaxes, and he looks at me intently. Almost in a way that says he wants me to tell him my favorite story. I guess it would not hurt if I did.