“When I left this morning,” I said, “to do my rounds in the Bookmobile, it was December 2019. But sometimes this happens. People from the past show up to borrow books. I met a guy named Fred Mueller—”

“Fred Mueller!” she cried. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. From West Fever. Poor man.”

“Yes. He turned up in my Bookmobile a few weeks ago, and I gave him a book that won’t be out for a while. I hope he liked it. I’m pretty sure it was his kind of thing.”

“A few weeks ago?” she said. “He died ten months back. I was going to write Brad and tell him, then thought better. I only send him good news from home. Every day over there could be his last, I don’t want him to have a head full of rotten . . .” But then she fell silent and looked down at the paperback in her hands again. She peeked inside and flinched. “I can’t read the copyright. The numbers jump out of sight when I try to focus on them.” She leafed through some of the other pages. “But I can read the rest.” Then she gave me a bright, curious look. “Can I read the rest? You’re going to let me borrow it?”

“As long as you’ve got a library card,” I said, and she laughed. “I think you have one to return? One that’s past due? That’s part of how this seems to work.”

“Oh! Yes,” she said. She opened a black velvet flap on her purse and plucked out a copy of Valley of the Dolls. Her cheeks pinked up just slightly. “What trash,” she said, and burbled softly with embarrassed amusement.

“So pretty great, huh?” I asked, and her giggle turned to a shout of laughter.

I led her back to the desk. She followed on unsteady legs, glancing here and there.

“I see it now,” she said. “The books. Some of them are all right. But most of them are . . . shivering. Like they’re cold. And it’s hard to read the names on the bindings.” She laughed again, but it was a nervous, unhappy titter. “This isn’t happening, is it? I’m on the couch. I’ve been taking pills for my . . . well, I’ve had some discomfort. I must’ve passed out, and now I’m imagining this.”

“Can you talk to a doctor?” I asked. “About your condition?”

When she replied, it was a one-word whisper: “No.”

“It might not be too late, and it would mean everything to Brad Dolan if he could come home to his mother.”