She snorted softly.
“Fix me?” Aden asked, clearly offended.
“But we are. We’re like… little pieces of our Authors. Mine said she lives through me, kind of.” He shrugged, which was hard to do holding her. “Maybe I should mind more. But I don’t. I never look back on something I did or said or felt and think, ‘scud, that was probably my Author. That doesn’t seem like me’. And I feel that way looking at you. You’re not your Author. Or words on a page. Not… not to me.”
He had to stop there, or he was afraid he’d do something stupid and derail the conversation.
Oh, scud, he was staring at her. He blushed a little and looked out over the trees.
“What about the other girl? Why can’t she drive?”