The gates gaped open in invitation. The Soukies had deserted, scooter trikes and all. Beyond the stone walls, a few lanterns glowed through plastic sheeting, but most stalls were shuttered and dark, or dismantled entirely. The premature storm must have taken the Souk by surprise as well. A few frantic lag-behinds chased wind-whipped flaps or loose merchandise, bellowing at each other to hurry, hurry. Just watching them made me anxious, but my picker’s instincts held me to the spot. Might be interesting stuff blowing around in there, and all I had to show for a long day’s picking was the poncho on my back.

I wondered about the Book Dude’s tent: stuffed with paper and old cardboard, so vulnerable to wind and water. He seemed like a sensible guy. He’d have heeded the alerts and packed up in time. Maybe he’d even left some behind.

But what if he’d been caught short, like these others? All those lovely books?

It was like ten blocks to his stall. If the rain held off and without a crowd, I could make short work of it, give him a hand if he needed it. Better still, pick up the leavings.

A crazy idea, why even consider it? I danced in place, arguing with myself, this new self who kept urging me to follow my impulse. Then, like someone had cut my tether, I launched myself through the gates and ran the whole way, slowing only to scoop up a few choice items—a blue ball cap on the fly, a floral scarf grabbed in midair, a noisily tumbling steel drink bottle—to toss in my grab bag.

The rain had swept by here, too, and everything was spattered. The book dude was there outside his tent, shifting books and boxes inside. I slowed to catch my breath. No point in startling the guy, who likely wouldn’t remember me. Or he’d think me a nutcase for showing up now. And maybe he’d be right. I almost turned to leave.

But he’d heard my panting approach. He glanced up, squinted through the failing light, trying to place me. Then he threw me that open smile I’d liked most about him.

“Hey! You’re back!” He brushed sweat and rain from his eyes. “What’s up?”

“Passing by on my way home.” Lame, but not entirely a lie.

“Best be on it, then! Weather’s coming up fast!” If his arms hadn’t been full, I could tell he’d be waving them wildly. He had on the same T-shirt and old jeans. Maybe his wardrobe was as scant as mine. He nodded at the damp scatter of crates. “I got behind helping pack up the old folks next door. Their stuff is all glass. This one took us all by surprise.”

“Maybe I could help . . . ?”

“No, no. You’d best be quick on your way. They’re saying it’s a monster!”