Opening the thick reference guide, I studied the illustration diagramming the various parts of Celtic swords versus Viking swords. The photo my clients wanted to use was definitely Viking. And even if it was a beautiful image, they couldn’t use it. People delighted in calling companies out on inaccuracies like this—especially history enthusiasts, who were very quick to pick up on social media gaffes, no matter what era. Sometimes, those gaffes made you famous for the wrong reasons.

I took my phone out of my pocket and took a picture of the pages showing examples of both swords. I sent an email to the client, explaining that we couldn’t use their preferred stock photo, but I would find a historically accurate image they would love just as much by tomorrow. Still concentrating on careful email phrasing, I heard a grunt behind me and what sounded like an appendage—an elbow?—thumping against book spines. My head whipped toward the noise.

Several things happened all at once. The bookshelf behind me wobbled, despite being almost floor-to-ceiling. A literal ton of wood and paper was clearly no match against the adolescent desire to see block-printed boobs. Several extremely heavy books on the last legal duels in Kentucky—I could see the titles on the spines as if they were frozen in time—tumbled towards me. All I could think to do was drop the sword guide, cover my head and hope I didn’t get knocked out. My ears detected lightning quick steps against the worn carpet just to my right. The soft, woodsy scent of cedar with the crisp edge of some sort of resin filled my nose and I felt my heart squeeze—though honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was the lovely smell or if I was having some sort of book-related cardiac event.

From under my arm, I saw a tall, dark-haired man dashing toward me, hands outstretched. I waited for the impact of the books against my skull, but despite the rain of reference material hitting the carpet all around me, the weight never landed on me. Dropping my arms hesitantly, I looked up and saw the man crouched over me. In his large hands, he held the books that should have been scattered on top of my unconscious body.