Maggie
People always say libraries smell like old books.
They don’t.
They smell like paper.
Coffee.
Dust.
And quiet.
It’s my third day.
I’m beginning to understand why Mrs. Bennett knows exactly where every misplaced book belongs.
She doesn’t memorize shelves.
She memorizes people.
“Good morning, Maggie.”
“Morning.”
She hands me a small stack of returned books.
“Easy start today.”
I glance at the pile.
“Easy?”
“Trust me.”
I don’t trust her.
Not after yesterday’s “easy” turned into helping a retired professor locate a philosophy book that had been missing for three years.
Around eleven, a little girl walks up to the front desk carrying three books.
She can’t be older than seven.
She carefully places them on the counter one at a time.
“I finished them.”
Mrs. Bennett s
