“Your wife?” said Timothy. “No, haven’t seen Janis since your last birthday. She came in and bought that facsimile copy of Tropic of Capricorn for you.”

“You sure?” said Todd, a hint of menace in his voice.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Timothy said, more firmly. He might be an old fraud, but he was also a nasty heartless old fraud and Todd didn’t exactly scare him. “Now what was the name of that book again?”

Todd backed down. “Sorry, Timothy, I’m having a weird time lately.”

Timothy was about to tell Todd that the times they were a-changing when he realized that this was a heap of bullshit too far, even for him. Instead he said, “Just tell me the name, author and publisher and let’s see if we can track that bugger down for you.”

*  *  *

A few minutes later, having searched the FICTION shelves, both hardback and paperback, Todd and Timothy were in the stockroom. A bare bulb shone above them and Timothy was consulting his ledgers.

“Nothing,” he said. “Not the book you wanted nor anything by this Jake Turner.”

Todd grabbed the ledger from him. Timothy took it back.

“I know my own stock,” he said. “And I know books. If you weren’t so darned fervent, Todd, I’d be so bold as to say that there ain’t no such book.”

But I’ve seen it, Todd wanted to say. I recall the cover—it’s a woman’s head, and she’s looking out of the cover, and her hair is like a hydra’s. No, he corrected himself. It’s a rainbow. It’s all her colors. Kind of literal, but it works. Todd found himself remembering more lines from the book. Dialogue. Plot. Even chapter titles. He said none of this to Timothy. He didn’t want the Mayor of fucking Hobbiton telling people that Todd Milstead was losing his mind.

“Okay, Timothy,” he said finally. “I guess I got it mixed up with some other book.”

“I guess you did at that,” said Timothy. “I’ll keep an eye out for it, Todd, and anything else by this Turner fellow, and call you if something turns up.”

Somehow Todd knew that nothing was going to turn up, just as he knew that there would be no copy of All My Colors or any other books by Jake Turner at the local library, or the main library in the city, or the new giant bookstore out of town, or anywhere in the world. But he also knew that All My Colors was real, that he’d seen it, he’d read it, he’d owned it, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t understand how two entirely different things could be true, but they were, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“See you ’round, Todd,” said Timothy as Todd headed out the door. He picked up his empty but beautifully bound book. Stupid fucker’s finally gone crazy, he thought to himself as he flicked through its blank pages.

*  *  *