When Christopher brings the lights back up, Alex is wearing his papier-mâché donkey head, and Rachel is trying to stifle a laugh as Alex staggers about, and owls are hooting from Natalie’s portable speaker, and Olivia-the-bandit is offstage with her ski mask and foil-covered sword, ready for her cue. Creating this play with these children is the best thing that has happened to Zeno in his life, the best thing he has ever done—and yet something isn’t right, those two question marks riding the conduits of his brain, slithering past whatever barricades he tries to set in front of them.

Those weren’t dropped books. That wasn’t the microwave door.

He glances over his shoulder. The wall they’ve built across the entrance to the Children’s Section is unpainted on this side, bare plywood nailed to two-by-fours, and here and there dried drips of gold paint catch the light and glimmer. The little door in the center is closed.

“Oh dear,” says Rachel-the-maid, still laughing, “I must have mixed up the witch’s jars! But don’t worry, Aethon, I know all the witch’s antidotes. You go wait in the stable, and I’ll bring you some fresh roses. As soon as you eat them, the spell will be undone, and you’ll transform from a donkey back to a man as quick as a swish of your tail.”

From Natalie’s speaker comes the sound of crickets rubbing their forewings at night. A shiver runs through Zeno.

“What a nightmare!” cries Alex-the-donkey. “I try to speak, but all that comes out of my mouth are bleats and brays! Will my luck ever change?”

In the shadows offstage, Christopher joins Olivia and pulls on his own ski mask. Zeno rubs his hands. Why is he cold? It’s a summer evening, isn’t it? No, no, it’s February, he’s wearing a coat and two pairs of wool socks—it’s only summer in the children’s play, summer in Thessaly, Land of Magic, and bandits are about to rob the inn and load Aethon-who-has-become-a-donkey with saddlebags full of stolen goods and hurry him out of town.

There’s a benign explanation for those two bangs; of course there is. But he should go downstairs. Just to be sure.

“Oh, I never should have dabbled in this witchery,” says Alex. “I do hope the maid hurries up with those roses.”

Seymour

Beyond the library windows, beyond the storm, the horizon eats the sun. The wounded man with the eyebrows has dragged himself to the base of the staircase and curled up against the bottom stair. Blood is filling the upper corner of his T-shirt, blotting out the BIG in I LIKE BIG BOOKS, turning his neck and shoulder a vivid crimson: it frightens Seymour that the body contains such an extravagant color.