“Jackie, as little as I like spending time with you, and I want you to know that even though I am trying to be the adult of the two of us here, because I am the adult of the two of us, I do not like spending time with you much at all, but as little as I like this, the library is a dangerous place, we both know it. And since we both apparently need to go into it, we should do the right thing and go together.”

Or words to that effect. Jackie had lost interest around “I am the adult.” No, not interest, patience.

Jackie wanted Diane to go home. She did not need another parent any more than Diane needed another child.

Diane knew the girl needed help. Diane lowered her face, keeping eye contact and giving a slight grin, something that usually worked when Josh was acting sullen or distant.

Jackie turned her head and looked through the doors into the empty checkout area. A fake velvet rope marking where the line would go if there were any people alive in there, and beyond that the shelves of dangerous books. Jackie did not feel fear, but she was aware of herself. She knew that it wasn’t healthy, what she was doing.

“Okay fine,” Jackie said.

“Okay fine what?”

“Okay. You can come.”

“So, just to be clear. We’re in this together?”

“Yeah, man. Fine. Whatever. Come on,” Jackie said without looking back.

Diane went in first, Jackie holding the door. By the door was the return slot for books or for anything else a person might want to return to the library. Jackie, being who she was, lifted up the metal lid for a moment, just to see. Inside it was dark and damp and there was an intermittent crackling or crunching sound. Diane shuddered and, putting her hand over Jackie’s, gently closed the lid. Jackie pulled her hand away from Diane’s and kept walking.

The checkout area had printers and computers that looked to be twenty or more years out of date. Nothing like the cutting-edge machines regularly released into local computer stores and immediately outlawed by City Council. There were stains of indeterminate origin all over the counter. Jackie touched one; it was still sticky.

The stain ran in a sloppy streak across the counter and up a pencil holder. Jackie rose up on tiptoes and peered into the cup, which at first appeared empty, but the longer she stared into the small darkness, the more she could make out a pattern—or texture—at the bottom. She could not be certain, but there seemed to be a small lump of wet hair in the bottom of the pencil holder. She lowered herself back onto her heels.

“What are you here for?” Jackie asked.

“Public records. You?”

“Newspaper archives.”

“Good. Should be right next to each other.”

“Sure. I guess.”