He shuffled through the door into the backroom where they kept the extra stock. Hundreds of books in a dozen groups stacked to near ceiling height greeted him. To one side, boxes rested on top of smaller book stacks.

Must get to those, he told himself.

Tomorrow.

Maybe.

If his knuckle joints loosened.

A table stood pressed against a wall with cracked and peeling, once-bright-yellow paint. Multiple dirty cups perched amid out-of-date magazines and more books on its surface. Best wash those tomorrow too. Maybe he would. If he couldn’t find a clean one come coffee time.

A small window with a view to a side alley allowed enough light through to catch dust particles dancing in the air. Old paper made a lot of the stuff and it irritated his sinuses. Even after all these years.

What ya gonna do? Where else was he gonna work? And who’d have him? Wasn’t as if he was skilled up like the young folk with their computers and tappy-tappy screens.

Nope, he’d probably die between science-fiction and the women’s literary shelves. They’d find him smiling because he’d dropped off this mortal coil surrounded by what he loved.

Just Lord, please don’t let him collapse anywhere near romance.

Now where was that carton?

He knew he put it somewhere out of the way yesterday. Or was it the day before?

Hmm, possibly even Monday.

And today was?

No, that was too much thinking.

Today was today. Good enough for this little mouse.

Then he remembered. He had pushed the box beneath the table. The contents had caught his attention, and he wanted to take a better look at his leisure. Joe hadn’t mentioned to him where and when he got them.

He’d forgotten it was him who’d put the book out there on display. Sometimes this memory of his, it just went ‘round and ‘round and ended up nowhere.

Lucky he found the books and had the good sense to put that one out on display.

Hundred and twenty bucks! Woo-wee, that was something.

No way was that little thing worth that. No accounting for a collector’s taste. Nope, there was not.

Yes! There she was, the carton as he remembered, now he’d got thinking. Still juice in this old brain yet.

He leaned down and his back reminded him he should bend at the knees. Easier said than done with his joints and tired, worn muscles. Some days he felt put together with tape and string, and spit and glue—more spit than anything else.

He pulled at the carton’s edge and it obligingly slid toward him. His grizzled hands lifted the cardboard flaps, and he stared inside. They were all there. Joe had removed none of them yet. Thirteen left after he’d sold that one just now.

Pretty and green and… strange.

Because he’d already looked over a few of ‘em and they seemed nothing special. A bunch of handwritten notes, that was all. Not worth what the guy paid, Mr. Collector, but who’s gonna argue? A fool and their money, right?