This Biker Walked Into My Library At Closing Time And I Reached For The Silent Alarm

I honestly thought this biker was reaching for his weapon. It was 7 PM on a Tuesday, fifteen minutes until we locked the doors. The library was empty except for the hum of the old heater and the smell of paper that had been aging for decades.

Then the automatic doors hissed open.

He was massive. Probably six-foot-four, 280 pounds of leather and tattoos. His vest was faded black with patches I couldn’t read from across the room. His beard was gray and unkempt. His boots were caked with mud. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets.

I’ve worked at this branch for twenty-three years. In this neighborhood, you learn to read people fast. We aren’t just librarians here. We’re social workers. Security guards. Therapists. Sometimes we’re the only safe adult a kid sees all week.

And sometimes, we’re targets.

My hand found the silent alarm button under the circulation desk. I didn’t press it yet. But I was ready.

The biker stood by the entrance, scanning the room. His eyes found the security cameras. Found the exits. Found me.

Then he started walking toward my desk.

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