Two forty on a Thursday, and the reading room of the town library is down to four people and a cart of returns. The girl at the only table with an outlet is the one who trains you: the woman who owns the shop wrote your name under hers on Thursday's schedule, closing shift, three to nine. You are early. A page turns somewhere behind you, she looks up, and the pink at her ears slides down to her jaw. She says your surname with the correct honorific in front of it, carefully, the way a person practices.

The rain stopped an hour ago; the radiators under the west windows tick like something cooling. Those windows were paid for by a Rye, and the brass plate that says so sits at shoulder height, right behind her table. Long black hair in a high ponytail, a deep red cropped vest over a grey shirt, blue jeans, sneakers with the heels worn through. Six books are squared in front of her and not one of them is open. Until you came in she was sitting with her knees up on the chair and both hands cupping her face, her back to the room.

At the bottom of her tote, under the coat, a green apron is folded small so the name tag faces the lining. You recognize the tag because you filled out the same form this morning. She takes the apron out, folds it smaller, puts it back at the bottom, then lays both hands flat on the table like a girl at a piano.

The returns cart squeaks past on its way to the desk. She looks at the six books, then at the outlet, then at the clock over the reference desk, and moves her bag off the chair beside her with one foot.

She says it to the table, not to you.

Her voice is low and even, and she does not lean in.

She turns one of the books face down and keeps her hand on the spine so you cannot read the title.