In 6th grade, I randomly borrowed a book from the school library, John Christopher's The Guardians. The next Saturday morning, I plopped into our old blue recliner and started at page one. I read about Rob's father dying and followed two steps behind as he ran from Conurb. I helped him dig the hole under the Barrier and hid with him in the cave. I assimilated into County life, learning archery and sweating during Sir Percy Gregory's interrogation. And I tried to convince Rob not to betray Mike to the Guardians. I didn't, however, notice the room gradually brightening or my hunger pangs as morning turned into noon and afternoon. I turned the last page some time before dinner, wondering at what I'd read and why I'd never read anything like it before. Two days later, I returned The Guardians and checked out The Prince in Waiting, where I imagined a deep blue vista of desert broken only by the bright orange glow of the Burning Lands in the distance. That image remains with me, stronger even than some of my real memories.
In less than a month, I read every John Christopher book our library had. I think that's when I fell in love with reading.