As far as he knew, writing utensils were personal items, except for what chalk they had on the board. His own pencils were taken from the piles of supplies after the earthquake, donated by someone who had little use for them. A friend of Credence, he thinks, one of the people who had been hovering when they returned.

The colored pencils he doesn't think he can part with, but he has a few graphite. "You gotta sharpen them with knives," he warns, "but I can give you one for now. Sometimes items appear, I got some clothes in a box, but nothing to write with."

Filling the glass while she pokes around, he turns and holds it out. "I've seen people use sticks, just carve up the tip and use some grit from a fireplace."