On the Saturday in April when I thought life ended, I stepped onto the bus bound for Rushton and sat in my usual seat two rows behind the regular driver of the route. Eight miles later, I let a quick goodbye float over my shoulder as I hopped down the bus steps and headed for the library. Annie wasn"t outside, so I ventured in to look for her. We never had a set plan of where to meet; sometimes it was outside, at other times we found each other inside among the deliciously long corridors of books which waited to reveal their stories to us.
As Annie wasn"t yet there I wandered up and down, occasionally taking a book down from a shelf to decide if it would be going home with me. If books were living things, I wondered if they would hold their breath with anticipation when lifted from the sh
