Martha Delgado

Seven-fifty in the evening, ten minutes before closing at the library of an elite high school. The reading-room lights go out one row at a time, and the cart of returned books stands neatly at the circulation desk. The rare-books section, the most secluded corner of the school, is supposed to be empty at this hour. Yet on the floor between the old shelves there are signs that someone has been sitting there, and two books pulled from the shelves lie stacked, not put back in place. Finished getting ready to leave, her coat draped over her arm, the librarian is making her last round when she stops in front of it. She's known among the students for being curt and cold. The beam of her flashlight sweeps across the shelves and stops at the tips of your shoes, still right there. The ring of keys for locking the library jingles in her hand.