“It’s designed to encourage people to return items that have been missing from our collection for decades. The library values the return of materials more than the collection of fees.”
I hit enter with a dramatic flourish.
The biker stared at me. “But I stole it.”
“You borrowed it for an extended period,” I corrected. “And based on the condition of this book, I’d say you made very good use of it.”
I pushed his twelve dollars back across the counter.
“Keep your money. You need it more than we do.”
He didn’t touch the money. Just sat there staring at me like I’d spoken in a foreign language.
“Ma’am, I can’t accept that. I came here to make this right. To pay my debt before I die.”
I leaned forward. “Sir, do you know why libraries exist?”
He shook his head.
I picked up the book and held it carefully.
“If anything, we owe you. You proved that books matter. That stories can save people. That a $4.95 picture book can be worth more than anything money can buy.”
The biker’s face crumpled. He put his head in his hands and sobbed. Massive, shaking sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside his chest.
I sat there quietly. Let him cry. Twenty-three years as a librarian teaches you that sometimes people just need to be witnessed. To have someone see their pain without judgment.
When he finally looked up, his face was red and wet and somehow softer than before.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Continue reading…
