He really has to stop doing this. One moment he's walking along, face buried in a book, memorizing the spot patterns on poisonous mushrooms native to Oregon, and the next it feels like he's walked straight into a brick wall, book rebounding upward and cracking him across the nose. Billy stumbles back with an oof, lifting a hand to rub at the sharply aching bridge of his nose. He should have been watching where he was going, and he should apologize, but that dry tone just rubs him the wrong way, and he's answering before he can think twice about it.

"You're one to talk, jeez," he mutters, bending to pick up his own dropped books, scattered in his bounce and rebound. A book on woodcraft, a book on knots, a book on--embroidery?? "This isn't mine," he says, holding it and looking at the cover critically. Are those daisies??