His steps were heavy. Slow. The kind of walk that said he was carrying something heavier than his body weight. He stopped at the counter and stood there for a long moment, looking everywhere but at my face.
“Can I help you find something, sir?” My voice was steady. Professional. My hand hadn’t moved from the alarm.
“I have to return something,” he whispered.
His voice cracked on the last word. This giant, terrifying-looking man sounded like he was about to cry.
Slowly, he pulled his hand out of his pocket. I braced myself for a weapon.
But it wasn’t a weapon. It was a book.
He slid it across the counter toward me. It was a children’s picture book. “Goodnight Moon.” But this copy was barely recognizable. The spine was held together with duct tape.
The corners were destroyed. The cover was so faded I could barely make out the illustration. The pages were swollen and warped, like they’d been wet and dried a hundred times.
I picked it up carefully. Scanned the barcode.
The system beeped angry red.
I stared at the screen. Then I stared at the biker. 1972 was fifty-two years ago.
“I stole it,” he said. The words poured out like he’d been holding them for decades. “I was seven years old. I put it under my shirt and walked right out. Nobody stopped me.”
My hand slowly moved away from the alarm button.
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