A snicker emanates from across the room, soft and malevolent. That’s Mark, one of our regulars. I don’t know his diagnosis, but his illness is more subdued than most of the others. A small crowd shuffles in just before Noon; twentysomethings living at the encampment in the woods along the river, about two miles down the road. A fight breaks out. Jessica’s pock-marked boyfriend looks desperate as they troll Facebook, wanting to score some tar from their dealer.
“Get a job at the library,” they said. “You get to read books all day!”
They have no idea.
D.A. Donaldson maintains a short-fiction blog whilst clerking at the local public library.