“See these stains?” He pointed to dark spots on the pages. “That’s from reading it by candlelight in a squat house in Detroit when I was nineteen. See how the pages are warped? That’s from a flood in New Orleans in 2005. Lost everything I owned except what was in my saddlebag.”
He turned to the last page. The one with the quiet old lady whispering hush.
He looked up at me.
“It’s the only thing that kept me alive, ma’am. When I wanted to die—and I wanted to die a lot—I’d read this book and hear my mama’s voice and I’d make it through one more night.”
I was crying. I didn’t even realize it until I felt the tears hit my hands on the keyboard.
“So why return it now?” I asked. “If it means that much to you?”
The biker closed the book gently. “Because I’ve been sober for eleven years. I found a good woman who loves me even though I don’t deserve it. I’ve got brothers in my club who’d die for me. I made something of my life, even if it took me sixty years to do it.”
He pushed the book toward me.
“And I realized that I’ve been carrying guilt about this stolen book for fifty-two years. It’s a tiny thing compared to everything else I’ve done. But it’s the one thing I can actually fix. The one wrong I can make right.”
He tapped the twelve dollars on the counter.
I looked at the computer screen. $847.63.
I looked at the twelve dollars.
I looked at the destroyed picture book that had kept a broken little boy alive for five decades.
And I made a decision.
“Actually,” I said, typing on my keyboard, “you have incredible timing.”
He blinked. “I do?”
“Yes. The county just implemented a new program last month. It’s called the ‘Legacy Return Initiative.’ For any materials returned after more than twenty-five years, all fines and fees are automatically waived.”
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