I look back down at the book I had taken. I was so frantic, I didn't get a chance to look at the cover. An intricate design of a scorching red eye, shrouded in a circle of black. Words inked in red that I can't quite make out lined the perimeter of the black circle, and a golden ring facing gem-down above it. The Fellowship of the Ring, J. R. R. Tolkien. A good read, in most respects. Although It does feel as though I'm missing some piece of the puzzle. Yet, isn't that the case most times? I wasn't unlucky enough to have been born when the virus surfaced, nor for when It was in its prime, plaguing every walk of life. I was born during the aftermath, having to deal with consequences of a problem that was never fully explained to me.