Any Writer Worth His Salt Writes To

I Don't Hafta Take His Sass

There Was Nowhere To Go, But I Turned To Go And Met Atticus's Vest Front. I Buried My Head In It And Listened To The Small Internal Noises That Went On Behind The Light Blue Cloth: His Watch Ticking, The Faint Crackle Of His Starched Shirt, The Soft Sound Of His Breathing. 'your Stomach's Growling,' I Said. 'i Know It,' He Said.

It's Not Time To Worry Yet

I Do My Best To Love Everybody

Jen And I Were Accustomed To Our Father's Last-will-and-testament Diction, And Were At Times Free To Interrupt Atticus For A Translation When It Was Beyond Our Understanding.