It 's a quiet night in Shiganshina, and Levi 's got ink all over his hands. It 's frustrating in the extreme. 'Tch, ' he mutters, tries to wipe it down ' he just smears deeper in the lines of his palm. It 's not his fault; he writes with his left-hand, and ink runs. He hasn 't quite learnt how to do it without dragging the words along with him, smudged by his little finger, the side of his hand.

'Turn the paper at an angle, ' Erwin advises, distractedly, from the bed. Levi twists, looks over his shoulder; Erwin 's got a knee tucked up to his chest, three books out on the sheets. 'That 's what my father used to say, anyway, ' he mutters, frowning at the papers in his hands. 'To the other strange children who didn 't know how to write with the

correct

hand, ' he says, and then looks up, and grins.