Upon her departure from corporation-land, Pam had vowed that every morning the rest of her life she’d drink her first cup of coffee outside in the fresh air, and as far as I knew, she’d kept that promise. Well, if you counted the glassed-in front porch of her house as outside, which I did when there was active precipitation or any temperature below forty-five degrees.

“Thanks, but I can’t. I need to get up to the library ahead of Kelsey.”

“There’s a distinct line,” Pam said darkly, “between need and want.” But she said it with a smile and toasted me with her mug as I hurried off.

Pam was right. We often said “need” when we meant “want.” This pertained to new cars, food choices, and the type of countertops ordered for a kitchen. Coffee, though, was different. Drink the wrong kind in the morning, and it could instigate a bad mood that permeated the rest of the day.

I hurried through the rest of downtown, up the hill, and into the library, giving scant attention to the glorious building around me. Most days I made a point to appreciate the former school, renovated a few years ago into a library so stunning it was a regular stop for architecture buffs. Wide oak doors opened to a flagstone-floored lobby. To the left was the former gymnasium, now the main stacks, lit by Arts and Crafts chandeliers above and similarly themed lights on individual desks. To the right were the checkout desk, children and young adult sections, restrooms, and offices. Upstairs was the slightly scary boardroom, the director’s office, the computer lab, and the Friends of the Library book-sale room.

Oak trim was everywhere, metallic tile surrounded drinking fountains and doorways, and on the far side of the checkout desk was my favorite part of the entire building: the reading room, with its window seat and working gas fireplace. The reading room was the hangout spot for people from ages ten to a hundred and ten, and it was the heart of the library.

Yes, on most days I appreciated it all, and especially appreciated the generosity of Chilson’s taxpayers, who had approved a special millage, but this morning I was on a mission.

Without even bothering to drop my backpack in my office, I zoomed into the break room, which was . . . empty. Perfect. I smiled and opened the cabinet to begin the coffee-making task. Three seconds after I’d put the filter into the basket, I heard footsteps and turned. There, in the doorway, was my coffee nemesis, the person in the library who made coffee strong enough you had to stir it with a stick. For me, caffeine was the staff of life, but I didn’t need—or want—hair to grow on my chest.

“Hah!” I held the coffee scoop high, brandishing it like the trophy it was. “You snooze, you lose.”