The remainder of the afternoon was dead, as if the library’s usual patrons assumed the place was closed from having heard the news about the robbery. It was fine by Owen. He took up the usual work chores—reshelving, sending overdue notices, and weeding the collection for books that could be sacrificed to make room for newer books. This was the most difficult part of his job. He held in his hands a book from the children’s section with duct tape holding it together. Even with all the obvious repairs, the cover was still half torn off from the spine. You could no longer see the illustration of an old woman in a rocking chair with kids gathered around her. The book was titled The Daily Reader. It was one of his favorites when he was a kid. It told stories about a family—husband and wife with a girl and a boy, six and seven, and a new baby. There was a story for every day of the year. Some were involved and some were very brief, like the entries in a person’s diary. The reader got to be there for the big events and for the inconsequential. Owen, as a child, found the latter the nicest of all. Still, his warm memories of the story year he spent with that story family were not enough to stay his hand from tossing the decrepit volume into the trash bin. It was to be replaced on the shelf by a book about a boy who lived on an island and what happened when a coffin washed ashore. He hoped the kids who still came to the library would enjoy it as much as he’d enjoyed The Daily Reader.

A few minutes before closing, the chimes sounded again. Owen made his way out from amidst the stacks. There was nobody on the adult side of the library. He walked over to the children’s section and saw a man standing with hands behind him, looking up at the mural on the back wall.

“Can I help you?” asked Owen. “We’re about to close for the day.”

The man turned and revealed himself to be Gerry Roan, owner of the Busy Bee and Helen’s father. Owen was staggered. He couldn’t even bring himself to say hello, although he’d known the man since they were both young. Instead, he shook his head as if vehemently denying something.

“I’ve come to see how you were. I heard you’d been put in the hospital,” said Roan.

Owen found his voice. “Gerry, I’m so sorry about Helen.”

“Are you OK?”

His spasm of denial ended and he was able to nod. “Don’t worry about me. Is your wife holding up?”

“No, neither of us is very good. We can’t sleep.”

“I wish I’d been able to do something,” said Owen.