Mick had ventured out twice before William had got up. Technically it was just the once, but he'd intended twice.
When Mick woke up it was one hour off noon. He'd brought from his apartment the few groceries he'd had and made himself some cereal to start his day. Afterwards, he'd found the red book that he was supposed to read and was appalled by the note on top of it. A whole book? In a day? And the morning was over already! It was impossible to read a book in a day! Even a couple of chapters would've been a stretch.
He left the book there along with its note, wishing he had a pen so he could scrawl 'nope' across it, and he stormed out to the garage where his motorcycle was kept. In the moment between grabbing his helmet and putting it on, he reconsidered. He could at least try. It seemed rash to leave without opening the book at all. Maybe it was an easy read. It was about werewolves so at least it wasn't a book about some dusty old guy.
He set his helmet back down and went back. Glancing at the clock, it was quarter past twelve. He had around six hours before sundown. Maybe Fancy Pants wasn't an early riser. He returned to the room with the book in it, picked up the note that had wafted off the table onto the floor and set it back onto the table before he took the book, sat down on the comfiest looking chair, and started to read.
It wasn't dry but it wasn't wonderful, either. Whoever had written the book had done so without any personality. It was the kind of technical writing that were found in school textbooks. What was up with that? Didn't they realise kids were reading them? Why bore them to death with the information? Sighing, he resumed his focus and did his best.
Hours passed as he struggled with the book, constantly finding himself staring into space and having to force himself to read more. He shifted position countless times. When he finished the chapter he was on he was surprised to find he was only on chapter three. Chapter three? Was that all? After how many hours? He looked at the clock. It was half past one. Barely over an hour had passed. Shocked, Mick stared at the clock as its sweeping hand glided past numbers in yet another circle. This torture had felt like forever and it had barely been over an hour? While it was good news for him being able to read a lot of the book, the suffering wasn't worth it. He'd had enough. He wasn't cut out for this; murdering people and reading books.
Mick tossed the book onto the coffee table and it slid perilously towards the edge before stopping. He hadn't stayed to watch its landing though, for he was heading to his room. He grabbed his backpack and shoved all of his clothes into it. He put on his leather jacket, shouldered the straps of his bag, and took long strides towards the garage. Once there he shoved on his helmet, did it up, opened up the garage door, wheeled his bike out, closed the garage door behind him (but couldn't lock it from the outside) and then took off.
He rode hard towards a mountain in the district, taking the winding roads aggressively before he reached the peak. It had taken him half an hour to get here in what should've been a forty-five minute ride. Pulled over in the carpark of a lookout, he was a lot calmer when he got off his bike and stared out at the view. He gripped the railing tightly, white knuckles betraying his leftover tension.
He weighed the pros and cons of going back or just splitting. After twenty minutes of debating, he hopped onto his motorbike and headed back down the mountain road at a much more sedate pace. It took him forty-five minutes before he was opening the garage door again and wheeling his bike back in. He put everything away except for his backpack full of clothes, which he dumped at the foot of his bed before looking for the werewolf book again.
And that was how William found him, sitting on the comfy armchair and only just reaching halfway in the book he'd been assigned, miserable and studious.