I wonder if he knows that sometimes, in the quiet of my head, I imagine myself in the Orman forests. That I walk in the crushed-grass footprints of the girls, my own tread covering theirs completely, until their stories become my own. If he knows that, even though the books have stopped speaking to me, the world behind my eyes still looks very much like a living, breathing library.

Without a word he rises, his elbow accidentally bumping my knee. He is halfway down the hall, his muffled steps barely registering in the silence, when I find my voice.

“So, you’ll talk?” I ask as I find my own feet. “About Jenna? And,” I can’t resist asking, “maybe Orman?”

I haven’t left the room, but I hear him pause at the top of the stairs.

No answer. I can sense the storm gathering strength, so I amend.

“Okay,” I say. “No Orman. But … you’ll tell me what Jenna said?”

I’m in the hallway now and can just barely make out his silhouette on the stairs—his back straight, head bent as if scanning the floor for something he’s dropped, his left hand sprawled on the railing, fingers tapping a beat. He is a human computer calculating risk and reward. He hasn’t said anything, but he also hasn’t said no.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I prod.

I’ve pushed too far. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look my way as he glides down the staircase with familiar ease, even though I’m almost to the stairs myself.

I watch as he opens the front door to leave, can’t help but torture myself with what I suspect is the last time I will see N. E. Endsley in the flesh. I let my mind run circles around his meeting with Jenna, his books, the pictures on his phone. I’m so lost in my own head that I almost don’t hear his voice intermingled with the jingling bells of the front door.

“Maybe.”

chapter eight

The morning greets me with the scent of coffee seeping through the guest room floor from the café below. Yesterday’s sandwich forgotten, my stomach forces me from my nest of pillows and tangled sheets to hunt down food. I’ve slept in my clothes, the sweatpants and bookish shirt, so I’m even more wrinkly and unkempt than usual, but somebody has brought my duffle bag in from my car, the keys set neatly on top. I rush over and check that my precious 101st copy is still inside, wrapped in a dish towel and zipped into a huge protective baggie. I let out a sigh of relief when I see it, and I continue to stare at it while I change into jeans and a clean T-shirt.