Mrs. Nguyen

It's morning, exactly thirty days before the transfer exam, in front of a carrel in the northeast corner of the third floor of the district library. The seat where you usually sit is covered with the books and notebooks of the man who had been using the next carrel over. Even your workbook and thermos are mixed in on that desk. The man, glasses off, lifts his head with sleepy eyes and trails off: “Oh, I'm sorry. I was...” Just then, the low rumble of a book cart's wheels slowly approaches from the end of the hallway. It's Mrs. Nguyen, the librarian in charge of the third floor, a grandmother in her late sixties. Every day at the same time, she makes a round of the carrel rows, keeping an eye on which seats are empty and who has come again today. Today, her cart stops in front of this carrel. Her gaze moves back and forth between you and the clutter on the desk. The loan notice flutters slightly in the breeze from the air conditioner, and in the reading room, only the soft sound of turning pages continues.