“Why are you returning it now?” I asked. “After fifty-two years?”
The biker finally looked at me. His eyes were red. Wet. This massive man with tattoos covering his arms and a vest that screamed “dangerous” had tears running down his weathered face.
He reached into his pocket again. Pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. Started smoothing the bills on the counter with hands that were shaking.
“I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, ma’am. Things I can’t fix. People I can’t apologize to because they’re dead or gone. But this—” He pointed at the destroyed picture book. “This I can make right.”
He pushed the money toward me. I counted it. Exactly twelve dollars in ones and coins.
“Is that enough?” he asked. “For the fine?”
I looked at the computer screen. The book was marked as stolen. The replacement cost from 1972 had been $4.95. With fifty-two years of maximum fines, processing fees, and inflation adjustments, the system calculated his debt.
Total owed: $847.63.
Eight hundred and forty-seven dollars for a children’s picture book.
I looked at his twelve dollars. Looked at this dying man who’d ridden his motorcycle to a library to return something he stole when he was seven years old.
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