There were three boys. One summer, they were all given the same book by their uncle. They were told the books were theirs and to do with them what they pleased.

The first boy all but destroyed every page between book covers that were even worse for ware. Pages were burned, inked over, waterlogged. The spine was broken. A few pages had been repurposed for a fleet of airships.

The second boy kept the book as sacrosanct. As he read, he carefully turned each page. Any thought he had was marked neatly in a second notebook he had paired with the gift from his uncle. He was very careful to not scuff or mar a single page nor its cover.

The third boy made the book his. He read the book through and through. Sometimes reading fast; sometimes reading slow. He marked on the pages, taking notes or underlining what he liked. With multiple passes the notes became at once deeper and more crowded. He could see things he guesses wrong and right. Better yet, he could see how he changed.

After a summer with the books, the boys’ uncle asked what they’d learned from the books.

The first boy, shocked that he that he could have learned something from a book, had only the stories of his paper planes.

The second boy fumbled through his notes struggling to find the right thoughts to have about the books.

The uncle and the third boy talked about the book for hours. Both with their well worn copies in their laps.