I needed a piece of carrot cake. This was unbelievable. Stuck in a rut with reading. That should be illegal. Everybody should read all types of books. In fact, we should have a day off each month where everyone is required to stay home and read and read and eat their favorite cake.

She didn’t seem startled by my exasperation anymore. She seemed intrigued. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s right you’ll do it. I cannot have someone in my bookstore who is this rigid in their literary thinking.”

She went and sat at a table right by the window, the sunlight streaming in, the tiny island in the ocean beyond a green jewel. I breathed out. I don’t know why I get so mad at people about books, but I do. Books should be treasured. Books should be read as regularly as one brushes one’s own teeth. I read each day before bed. I read when I have free time. I read when I don’t have free time. I read to hold premonitions at bay. I read to laugh. I read for knowledge and information and history. I read to see someone else’s perspective or their lives or their challenges and how they beat the heck out of those challenges.

I brought her lemon tea and a piece of pumpkin cake with cream cheese icing as a peace offering because once I simmered down, I felt guilty. Customers should not be attacked. The woman was deep into one of the books I’d chosen for her, and she barely looked up. I sat at her table and ate a slice of pumpkin cake, too. Pumpkin cake has pumpkin in it, therefore it is part vegetable.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you,” I said. I had calmed down.

“No problem.” She didn’t look up from her book. “Thanks for the pumpkin cake.”

That woman bought all three of the books I suggested. She will be a happier person now that’s she broken out of her literary cell.

* * *

Virginia Alpaca was sick.

She was listless, lying on the ground, not moving much, her eyes dull, but then she would get up, then down, then stand up again. She wasn’t eating. I bent down and gave her a little hug. Virginia is one of the smallest alpacas I’ve seen. She is sweet and petite. “Virginia, what’s wrong?” She turned those tired eyes toward me. “Are you sick?”

Alpaca Joe leaned over her, as if asking the same question, then he turned and spit on the ground. Alpaca Joe’s a spitter. It’s like watching a baseball player with tobacco in his mouth, spitting away. “Yuck, Alpaca Joe,” I told him. He heard me. He spit again and looked at me. Alpaca Joe can be obstinate. “I saw that.”

Virginia Alpaca leaned against me. She was not curious or alert, her normal state. “Okay, Virginia. We have to go and see Dr. Marco.”

I tried to breathe through that tingling, happy thought. I wasn’t glad that my dear Virginia Alpaca was sick, but I was suddenly all a-jittery at the thought of going to see Marco, my handsome vet, who moved here almost a year ago. I called and made an appointment, then called the bookstore and told one of my employees, Tiala, that I would be late.