“You don’t have to say anything. But there is one condition.”
He stiffened. “What?”
“I’d like you to take this one. A legal copy. Properly checked out with a library card.”
He stared at the new book. “I can get a library card? Even with my record?”
“The library belongs to everyone,” I said. “Especially those who know what a book is really worth.”
I slid a registration form across the counter. He filled it out with shaking hands. His handwriting was rough, barely legible, but he completed every line.
I processed his card and handed it to him. His name was Thomas Reeves. Sixty-two years old. First library card he’d ever had.
“This book is due in three weeks,” I said, checking out the new copy of Goodnight Moon. “But given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone will mind if you keep it a little longer.”
He took the book. Held it against his chest like it was precious.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for believing me. For not calling the cops. For treating me like a human being.”
He stood up. Seemed taller somehow. The weight he’d carried into the library had lifted, at least a little.
“Can I ask you something, ma’am?”
“Of course.”
“Why’d you do this? You don’t know me. You had every reason to call the police or charge me the full amount. Why’d you let me off?”
I thought about his question. Thought about the little boy who’d lost his mother and stolen the only thing that reminded him of her voice. Thought about the decades of pain and struggle. Thought about him riding his motorcycle to a library, dying of cancer, just to return a children’s book and pay twelve dollars for peace.
“Because libraries aren’t about rules,” I finally said. “They’re about second chances. And everyone deserves at least one.”
Thomas nodded slowly. Put the new book in his jacket pocket, right over his heart.
“I’ll be here.”
He walked toward the door. Then stopped. Turned back.
“Ma’am? That book—the old one—what will you do with it?”
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