“I’d heard rumors. But my gut kept telling me there was more to you than that.”

“I’m almost sure my bullying days are done,” I say.

“Good.”

I manage something close to a smile. “I told Rolf I quit. You and him both on my case? No thanks.”

Docker puts a hand on my knee and for once I’m okay with it. “People who don’t know any better make fun of folktales and fairy stories. But the monster—the giant—is real. You took him on today, and you won. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, and pick at the seam some more. “And thanks for hanging in with me, Docker.”

“My pleasure.”

He means it. “I don’t think I can handle a lesson today.”

“Day off.” He hauls me to my feet, smiling at me. All these people whose eyes know how to smile.

“I’ll drive you to the beach,” Docker says. “Why don’t you buy yourself an ice cream, then sit on the wharf and eat it ... when you’re done, you can call me and I’ll drive you home. We’ll have our regular lesson Friday.”

Five minutes later I’m standing on the sidewalk near the ice cream stand. I feel a hundred years old, every bone in my body aching. The air is cooler here, the waves shushing on the sand; and suddenly I know what I’m going to do.

The Laughing Loon is open. I walk inside. No air-conditioning, but the windows are up, old-fashioned windows with small panes. There are rows of shelves jam-packed with books, the covers all the colors of the rainbow. Two overstuffed armchairs sit in an alcove just begging you to settle your butt and browse. Music is playing in the background. More of that classical stuff.

Glenn comes around the corner, Igor trailing him. “Hey, Brick.”

No smile. You can’t win ’em all.

Could be Mr. Semple’s changed his mind about the freebie. “I ... I was just passing by.”

“Igor’s discovered he likes lettuce,” Glenn says.

“Oh.” Is he kidding? No, he’s not.

“Dad was saying the other day you never came to pick out your book. He’s in the stockroom. I’ll get him.”

If I come here again, I should bring a head of romaine. Or a Caesar salad. I bet Igor would like croutons.

I look around some more. History, Biography, Sports, Nature ... where will I begin?

Mr. Semple’s walking toward me, beaming, one hand outstretched. Same corduroy shorts. “Good to see you, Brick.”

He squeezes my hand. Pain shoots up my wrist. He says, “Any book you want. Hardcovers, coffee-table book, whatever you’d like. Take your time.”

In the end, I narrow it down to three: a book about a long stone wall this British guy designed in a park on the Hudson River; an encyclopedia of running; and a book about greyhounds.