In the past two years, since I’d first found a shivering kitten in the parking lot of the public library, most people in my hometown of Athena, Mississippi, had grown used to seeing me walking my cat on a leash. As Diesel grew bigger, some of them wondered if he wasn’t part bobcat, but that’s only because no one in town—including me—had ever seen a Maine coon. What they’d think when he was fully grown in another year, I had no idea.

Strangers sometimes stopped us on the street to ask if he was a weird-looking dog—and I’d swear Diesel looked offended when they did. He was a sociable critter, but he didn’t tolerate fools lightly—a trait I found endearing.

I detected a hint of wood smoke in the crisp autumn air. It seemed early to be lighting a fire in the fireplace, but evidently one of my neighbors disagreed. The odor reminded me of times by the fire in my parents’ house on cold winter days.

The homes on my street were over a century old, many occupied by the same families for generations. The graceful architecture, the classic landscaping, and the feeling of a real neighborhood gave me a sense of security after I lost my wife.

Putting thoughts of Jackie aside, I started walking, Diesel preceding me by a few paces. The campus of Athena College—our destination this morning—lay three blocks to the east. A walk that should have taken five minutes usually took fifteen or twenty, because Diesel and I stopped several times so his many admirers could say hello. He took it all in stride, chirping and purring, putting smiles on faces, including my own. One or two even remembered to say, “Morning, Charlie,” so I wasn’t completely ignored.

Jordan Thompson, owner of the Athenaeum, our local independent bookstore, was out for her morning run. She waved as she zoomed past. I had to admire her dedication to exercise, and wished I could emulate it.

Diesel and I arrived at the college library just as Rick Tackett, the operations manager for the two library buildings, was unlocking the front door. Eight o’clock on the dot, and not a second sooner. We stood on the veranda of the antebellum Greek Revival mansion that housed the library’s administrative offices, archives, and rare book collections. The main building, known as Hawksworth Library, stood next door.

Rick nodded in response to my “Good morning” and stepped aside to let me and Diesel enter. About a decade my senior, Rick was pleasant though difficult to engage in conversation. Since he spent much of his time in the main building next door, I saw him only infrequently.

Diesel led the way up the central stairs to the second floor. On the landing, he turned left and paused in front of a door with RARE BOOK ROOM emblazoned in gold leaf on the glass.