Joseph O'Connor brings the book to his room

You look in the kitchen mirror and see Joseph O'Connor blearily blinking back at you, a red-headed tween that had a bit too much cultural heritage with his friends last night.

You slip the book back into the box and bring it and the cup of coffee you've made yourself back to your bedroom. You put the box away and clumsily unwrap the plastic wrapping around the book. It's surprisingly robust, seems to be taped with some annoyingly strong tape, and even has a zip lock for apparent re-use on it.

"Maybe it's worth a few hundred bucks," you mutter to yourself as you make a note to treat it gently, holding it in one hand. Then you flop back onto your bed and sigh before rolling over and getting a swig of the still a bit too hot coffee.

You put the cup back on the night stand and get into a more comfortable reading position. As you open the book, you see half a dozen titles for various stories and their page numbers. You snort as you see the title of first one and instantly go for that one.