It was a beautiful day.
The winter was finally beginning to relinquish its grip on the little town, the snow melting to shallow puddles in gutters and green grass poking through the cracks in the pavement underfoot. The sky was the deep rich blue of the far north. Under the shade of evergreens, children played in public parks barefoot, chasing butterflies and sweating filmy sunscreen off their faces.
The public library was sensibly sized, given the population of the town. During the snowy seasons, when the sun receded behind the horizon between the hours of ten and four, it was a haven for people seeking warmth and occupation. Now, in the springtime, it was deserted. The windows shone glassy like unseeing eyes in the sunshine, and the barren car park seemed to long for the company of cars and snow. Only the bikes of the librarians braved the heat, lined up in a humble row against the west wall of the building.
It was past the tail ends of these bikes that a lone figure stalked, his shoulders hunched and his form obscured by an olive drab coat much too hefty for the season approaching. He wore shiny new sunglasses, and unwashed blond hair in a knot atop his head. When he entered the library and hurried straight past the issue desk without pausing, the librarian on duty looked up from her cross-stitch embroidery and watched him go in confusion. Couldn't even the most hurried patron spare a polite smile as he passed her by?
The boy suspected he might be received in such a manner. He was never really the best at the 'small town civilities' thing. Feeling her eyes peering at his back, he made his way past the harlequin romance collection and pretended not to notice her watching. He had already spent at least forty minutes of anxiety that morning, sitting on the end of his bed trying to convince himself that it didn't matter what a librarian thought of him, and a further twenty minutes rehearsing what he might say if she tried to suggest he leave immediately. He had every right to be in this place, just like anyone else, and it was of little consequence to him if a stranger happened to think he looked like a criminal, cruising the aisles for a safe place to engage in any number of unspecified criminal behaviours. He needed information, it was as simple as that. He needed an explanation, or justification, or anything, really, to alleviate the clotted, aching sensation inside his skull.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple and tried to remember what he had learned in special ed. English. Non-fiction was the factual stuff, right? Kept in the decimal section, not far ahead. He had to try and recall what call number he wanted because no way in hell was he prepared to ask directions. Maybe it would be better to simply start at the start, and walk along the shelves until he found something relevant to his inquiries.
Maybe it would just be easier to just go home.
He scolded himself, and took a sharp turn left toward the back of the library – toward the infrequently visited section that housed the books with triple zeros on the spine. In the dull, artificially illuminated rear of the building, it was tolerable for him to push his sunglasses up onto his head and squint with red rimmed eyes at the titles he was examining.
Perhaps luck was on his side today - it didn't take him long to find what he wanted.
His hands trembled a little, maybe from exhaustion, or maybe from caffeine withdrawal, as he slid a book out from between its peers and flipped it over to scan the blurb. Deep inside the building, the heat pump rumbled. Sweat glossed his nose and cheeks, sticking the coat on his shoulders and bringing a wave of heated nausea over him. He swallowed, and braced himself against the shelf, trying to stabilise the words which were morphing and rearranging themselves before his eyes.
WHY ME?, the book was titled in plain caps font. A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR ABDUCTEES AND MONITORED INDIVIDUALS
He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard someone cough behind him, and the book slipped from his grip and onto the floor. A small leaf of paper fluttered out from between the pages and came to rest against his shoe, but he didn't notice - the librarian from the front desk was hovering a few metres back from where he was standing, looking a little as though she wanted to help but wasn't sure how to do so.
Puis-je vous aider?
Was she talking to him?
He glanced left, and right, and observed that there was not another living soul around so she must have been talking to him. The sound of children playing in the park outside carried through the windows at the north end of the computing literature section, and the volume seemed to rise to almost overwhelming heights as seconds passed by. Should he say something? Should he run? Should he immediately assure her that he was not a heroin addict, and she need not fear finding his emaciated corpse prone on the bathroom floor at closing time? That was probably what she was most concerned about - he thought he likely looked like he could have belonged in that category.
Non, non, je vais bien.
He scrambled to pick up the book, and the librarian continued to look on him over the rims of her glasses. For a single, hideous moment, he thought she was going to ask him something else, maybe suggest he hurry up and leave so she can go back to monitoring the empty library in peace, but she did not. By the grace of God, or Jesus, or whichever saint it was watching over him from their panopticon in the sky that day, she did not.
She jerked her head in a stiff nod, and turned her back to him. He watched her glide away, and thought that she walked as though she thought herself above pestering a vagrant about his activities. Thoroughly perturbed, he replaced the book (incorrectly) on the shelf and wiped his sweaty hands on the front of his jeans. For the first time, he became aware that he smelled bad. Like he hadn't showered in a few days, or like he had been cloistered in a small darkened room for an extended period, constructing paper buildings from matchsticks and PVA.
Both of these things were true.
Suddenly, he was ashamed to be out in public.
The boy wrapped his coat tighter around himself and made to leave. Fuck it. He would just have to google his questions, and if that meant putting himself in danger from whatever (or whoever,) it was keeping an eye on him, then so be it.
That was when he noticed the scrap of paper under the toe of his shoe - a hastily cut slip with inkjet printing on one side.
ARE YOU PREPARED FOR THE END OF DAYS?
He bent down again to pick it up, and one of his knees cracked loudly, sending a sharp pain up the inside of his thigh.
US NEITHER.
The boy frowned, hooking a loose strand of hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear. He turned the paper over, curiosity piqued, and began to read the other side. Outside, the birds were singing merrily, and on the bars and swings of the public park, children played.
It was a beautiful day.