I was still heaving a bit from my run. “Five minutes?”

He dropped a stack of books into a crate and sealed the lid. “Of course. Jeez. Sorry. Come in and catch your breath.”

“So it’s a monster now? I’ve been out all day.”

“That’s the latest.” He dragged the crate inside the tent, which I’d assumed was a flimsy shelter. But with the canvas flaps rolled and tied, I saw what darkness and the crowded racks of books had hidden that first night: the broken edges of a stone-walled building topped by a sturdy metal roof. Two metal doors stood ready to secure the front.

“This is cool,” I said.

“Sure is.” Daniel looked around, as if rediscovering a bit of luck. “It was an old Park Service maintenance shed. From maybe the 1930s, or even before! Someone blew out the door wall before I got to it, but I made the place tight again and it’s served me well. Nothing like an old building for strength.”

“So you don’t have to haul everything away.”

“All these books? Not a chance. Just drag it all inside and lock the doors. Easy beans. Really, Glimmer, why are you here? Thinking about borrowing a book?”

He remembered my name.

“Like I said—racing home from pick duty, west on 57th. A vision of books in the rain blew me off course. Didn’t know about . . .” I did an arms-wide turn in the narrow aisle. “All this.”

Daniel regarded me like, really? Then the metal roof rattled as the rain took up again. We both glanced out at the piles of stock yet to be rescued.

“Ah, hell. Maybe a little help wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’m on it.”

I shed the trippy poncho. Trash and loose stuff from other booths danced around our legs as we piled up armloads. The rain was gathering itself for total assault, but we were quick about it and the books hardly got any wetter than they’d been, though we were dripping by the time Daniel closed the metal doors to shut the storm out.

“Okay, that’s the lot. Thanks.”

I edged around a crate stacked with magazines, putting it between us and tugging my wet T-shirt away from my skin. I was not so easy about the two of us alone in a tight space.

He lit one of the hanging oil lamps, stilling it when it began to sway in the draft. He did a muttered final inventory, then took on that problem-to-be-solved look I remembered from last time. “Now let’s see about getting you home ASAP.”

“You ride the storm out in here?”

“Gad, no. Got a nice high-and-dry crosstown. Long hike for you, though, to Unca Joe.”

“Where?”

“C’mon . . .” He laughed at my narrowed eye and shot a forefinger at the brim of my street cap. “I read den sign, y’know. Good choice, Unca Joe.”