I turn away from the statue and sit at one of the tiny wrought-iron cafe tables that are set up under the horseshoe-shaped portico that surrounds the space. I’ve chosen this table with care. Right under one of the bronze gothic lamps that hang from the ceiling, light pooling over it in the gathering dusk. The table sits in the path that connects the old and new wings of the library. People walk back and forth, back and forth. Not too many—it’s getting late; the library will close soon. And it’s cold and snowing. When it’s warm, the courtyard is full, but now it belongs to me.

I take out my pen—a white paint pen I use for writing on metal, so it stands out. With it, I write my last acorn, carefully shaping each letter, pressing the pen down hard, but not too hard, or the paint will smear:

I want to die.

I stare at the words.

They are true.

I thought it might be hard to write them, but it’s not.

I’ve been writing them in my head for so long now. It’s a relief to put them out loud.

I wait a bit to make sure the paint dries. I pretend to check my phone because people look at you weird if you’re just sitting doing nothing, but I have it on airplane mode. I’ve already told Mae what I needed to. I lean forward, look up to the sliver of sky that peeks into the courtyard. I wonder which one she’ll choose. Which one will be named Hannah.

After a minute, I get up and cross to the other side of the courtyard and sit in the shadows.

For a while, people just hurry by. Trying to get out of the cold as quick as possible. Negative ten with windchill today. Can’t blame them.

“Please,” I whisper.

Just one.

Minutes go by—it’s only me and the empty tables, the snow whipping past the stone arches, the statue and her baby.

Then.

A woman pushes through the door that leads out of the new library. She stops by the table, looking at her phone. Curses. Sets her bag on the table. Stops. Stares at the table. At the white words on the wrought iron.

She stopped because of me.

Because of what I wrote.

She reads the words, and I can’t breathe, watching her.

My reader runs a finger over my acorn, then looks around the courtyard. I shrink into my shadows, and she doesn’t see me.

For just a second, she closes her eyes.

She gets it. I think.

She’s been here, too. Maybe not now. But she’s been here.

After a moment, the woman slips her phone into her pocket then walks away, into the light, the warmth, of the library.

I am suddenly so, so tired.