The dog bolted ahead and it was all I could do not to trip over Gunner and tumble into the tidal lake of melted snow and leaking water. I struggled to keep up with this animal. My feet and legs were cold and wet and numb. I splashed along, and a cheerful, younger man’s voice said, as I passed, “I do like your ass, son.” This sounded like Bennet talking. Should I say hello to Bennet? Would this be a reason for uncomfortableness at some later time? I couldn’t resist. I said, “Bennet, how are your kids?” And the mask was sliding down and repeatedly knocking my nose, bruising my nose. The mask’s straps chafed against my ears. I clutched the blue pillow and Gunner’s neck as we hustled out of Literature; we limped straight out of those stacks arranged as mazes inside dusty mazes. Out we came, a lean dog guiding a battered, mostly naked man waving a syringe and wearing an enormous painted mask, out past love seats and reading lamps, past the windows with torn red curtains blowing.

My leg collided with a coffee table and I fell down and lost my grip on the dog.

I adjusted the mask, peered up, and saw, through narrow, slitty eyes, what our red library had, over the course of the long night, become.

I saw water, dripping. Dark striations marked trails where melting snow made creeping descent through the tilting walls. Plaster and wood were contaminated by runoff from our leaking slate roof.

I saw windows thrown open to the elements. The windowpanes were frosted, opaque, black, adorned with tiny icicles. The wind rushed in and debris and paper blew like damaged birds around the room until deposited on the floor.

I saw men on the floor, men curled up in chairs and laid out on couches that had been shoved clear of water that poured down in a steady stream from the brown stain.

A silent company of men huddled around the fireplace. The men stoked the flames with splintered arms and legs of furniture smashed to bits for this purpose. Bats descended from above the lights and flew their erratic patterns around the men. These brothers passed a bottle between them and I envied them. Their faces were amber, hollow, destitute in firelight. I could identify Christopher and Fielding, Tom and Milton and Donovan. Others knelt before the grate but with faces turned away.

The water cascaded down from the ceiling and splashed the rug. Shallow rivers wound beneath tables and chairs, around a dozen broken lamps, past the bodies of Maxwell, Virgil, Barry.