Andy sat on one of the many unused bunks of Cabin Eighteen. She'd come here after the campfire; she really hadn't felt like a sing-along.
Turning on a small flashlight, Andy went to the bookshelf and looked over the titles. Robin had loved these poems and Andy wondered if, by reading them, she could be closer to him. Maybe his name would even be written on the pages. Yes, the name Robin would surely be written on every page.
She didn't know which one to choose. She'd never been fond of reading. Her hand hovered over the poor selection.
"Arma virumque cano..."
"Andra moi ennepe, mousa..."
"By this the Northerne wagoner..."
"Menin aeide thea..."
The books whispered beneath her fingers. She recognized most of the languages, except one. She picked up a book called the Aeneid and opened it. It was written in a strange language (Latin?) but the was a translation on the facing page. Andy sat down with the book and paused. She thought someone might be outside, but she ignored that.
Placing one finger beneath the first line, Andy began to painstakingly read.
"Of arms... and the man... I sing," she muttered out loud. "Who first made w - made way... predestiny. No, predestined exile."
It was a long night for both Andy and Nasim.