“And at least twenty-five of those are mother-and-child spaces,” I say, looking at all the straight yellow lines on the concrete running parallel to my car, with nothing between them. “I’m not going to deprive anyone of a space if I sit here for another three minutes. I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling great.”

“You don’t know who’s going to turn up in a minute,” says my persecutor. “The spaces might all fill up.” She pushes at her toothbrush-bristle bangs with her fingers. She seems to want to flick them to one side and hasn’t worked out that they’re too short to go anywhere; all they can do is lie flat on her head.

“Do you work at the library?” I ask her. I’ve never seen a Spilling librarian wearing stiletto-heeled crocodile-skin ankle boots before, but I suppose it’s possible.

“No, but I’ll go and get someone who does if you don’t move.”

What is she, then? A recreational protester whose chosen cause is the safeguarding of mother-and-child parking spaces for those who deserve them? She has no children with her, or any books, or a bag big enough to contain books. What’s she doing here in the library parking lot?

Get the bitch, says the voice in my head that I mustn’t listen to. Bring her down.

“Two questions for you,” I say coolly. “Who the hell do you think you are, and who the hell are you?”

“It doesn’t matter! What matters is, you’re in the wrong space!”

“Read the sign,” I tell her. To save her the trouble of turning around, I read it aloud to her, “‘These spaces are reserved for people with children.’ That includes me. I have two children. I can show you photos. Or my C-section scar, if you’d prefer?”

“It means for people who’ve got children with them in the car, as you well know! Shall I go and get the library manager?”

“Fine by me.” I’m starting to feel better, thanks to this woman. I’m enjoying myself. “She can tell us what she thinks the sign means, and I’ll tell her what it says, and explain the difference. ‘People with children’ means ‘parents.’ Those with offspring, progeny, descendants: the nonchildless. There’s nothing in the wording of that sign that specifies where the children need to be, geographically, at this precise moment. If it said, ‘This space is reserved for people who have their kids with them right here and now in this library parking lot,’ I could see a justification for moving. Since it doesn’t . . .” I shrug.

“Right,” Short Bangs snaps at me. “You wait there!”

“What, in the parking space you’re so keen for me to vacate?” I call after her as she stomps toward the library. “You want me to stay in it now?”

She makes an obscene finger gesture over her shoulder.