He continuously pondered how he might raise the money but knew full well that in two years, his library on the back road, nestled at the edge of the forest next to the train tracks, would be closed. Five local, small-town libraries would be gathered into one larger one, sharing a budget and a new location. Owen’s place had been built in 1948 and served the small suburban town since then. He went as a child and was enchanted by the mural above the children’s books, as was his father. For the past twenty years the town had kept the library operating out of a sense of nostalgia more than anything else.

There were regular customers, mostly retirees, who came for books and to sit in the afternoon quiet and stare out the plate glass window on the adult side. It offered the view of a field of weeds, then a tree line of tall oaks, and, not quite obscured by the shadow of the forest, abandoned train tracks. In the evenings, in autumn, just before he’d lock up, deer would appear in the field. The town of Westwend, on the edge of the pine barrens, moved at a radically slow pace.

This was about as far as he got in his calculations every morning while watching the birds. It was time to wash out his coffee cup and dress for work. That day it was the blue-gray suit, white shirt, no tie. The only alternative was the brown suit, white shirt, no tie. Locking the door behind him, he walked to the corner and turned left, making for town along a tree-lined sidewalk. The rain had stopped overnight but the wind was raging and the new leaves on the spring trees made a rushing noise like a rain-swollen creek.

If Owen was anything, he was a man of habit. At 7:05 every morning, he would arrive at the Busy Bee convenience store on the corner of Voss and Green. There, he always purchased a large coffee and a buttered roll. And as always, upon entering, he waved to Helen Roan, the owner’s daughter, working behind the counter. She was just out of high school and saving money to attend a state college by the following fall. She had her sights set on being an English major. Owen admired the quixotic nature of her plan, its blatant impracticality, its vow of poverty. He’d known her since she was seven and first came to the library with her mother.

“How are your folks?” he asked on the way to the coffee station. He took one sugar, one dollop of half-and-half (he never used a stirrer but let it slosh together on the remainder of his walk).

“They’re good. You know, my dad’s living a life of quiet desperation; my mom, loud desperation.”

Owen laughed. He was energized by her smile and intelligence.