I have no intention of stealing these books. When I’m done, I’ll return to this very night and replace them on the shelves so no one will be the wiser.
Before I leave, my stomach starts growling so I reach into the satchel for one of the apples, but they’re all gone. There’s no bread left, either. I don’t remember eating but I must’ve done so during the lost hours I sat staring at the book.
Another growl lets me know I need to find some food fast. Since I still haven’t figured out the money situation here, I can’t just walk into a store and buy what I want. I could hop around until I find a place that was closed, but that might take some time. So I decide to search the library first, hoping those who work here keep food someplace.
I discover a room for employees only that has a few large, box-like machines that dispense food. Here again, I need money. Thankfully, in the next room I find a refrigeration cabinet, much nicer than any I have ever seen. Inside are several bags and containers. Most have names on them, but there’s half a sandwich wrapped in plastic sitting on a lower shelf, unmarked.
I feel a tinge of guilt as I pull the wrapper off but I’m too hungry to let it stop me. After I shove the last bit into my mouth, I look in the cold cabinet again, this time for something to drink. Several metal cylinders of various colors with names like Coke and Sprite and Dr. Pepper are spread around, some additionally marked Diet.
I pick up one of the red Coke cans. The mechanism for opening it is new to me but only takes a few seconds to figure out. A hiss and a pop greet the pull of the tab, followed by a sizzling sound from inside. The can is cold but the sound makes me think the liquid is hot. Perhaps it heated up when I pulled the tab. Careful so I don’t burn anything, I take a very small sip.
Cold.
And sweet.
I take a longer drink.
And good.
Tipping the can back, I let the liquid run down my throat. I’m able to finish only half before I need to stop. The sweet flavor is wonderful but almost too much.
With my stomach no longer complaining, I decide to take advantage of the location. I sit at the table and start reading. But things don’t always go as planned, and before I can get a handful of pages in, the words begin to swim and I lay my head down and fall asleep.
I’m aware of voices behind me, but am still in that zone between dreams and reality, so I don’t realize the significance until someone grabs my shoulder and shakes me.
“Hey. Wake up!” The voice is sharp, female.
I blink, and for a second have no idea where I am. Upjohn Hall? My father’s house?
No. There is no Upjohn Hall, I remember, and it’s highly likely my father is among those who have never existed.
I’m in a now that shouldn’t be.
“What are you doing here?” My inquisitor is a short, thin woman in a brown skirt and beige blouse.
I part my lips, but don’t know what answer to give.
“Do you speak English?” she asks.
Finally finding my voice, I say, “Yes. I’m, uh, sorry. I didn’t, um— ”
“How did you get in here? Did you break in? Or were you hiding when the library closed last night?”
“No, neither,” I tell her, which is true.
“Maybe he was accidentally locked in.” This comes from a different woman standing back by the door. She’s younger, maybe even as young as I am, with long auburn hair and suntanned skin. She’s wearing blue workman’s pants like mine and a black button-up sweater that matches her black-framed glasses. Her tone is considerably more sympathetic than her friend’s.
The older woman glares at me. “Is that what happened?”
I nod. “Yes. I was, um, locked in. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So where were you when the staff closed up?”
“Um…”
The woman frowns and glances back at her colleague. “Ms. Davis, call the police. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“The police?” I say. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“And what do you call trespassing?”
“Maybe we should cut him a break,” Ms. Davis suggests. “He was just sleeping. He didn’t hurt anything.”
“And how do you know that? Have you searched the building yet? Who knows what he’s done.”
“I haven’t done anything.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my satchel sitting on the table, less than an arm’s length away. If I can get my hand inside, I can press the button combination that will take me fifteen minutes back and ten feet to the side.
Ms. Davis points past me, and I’m momentarily afraid she’s going to tell the older woman to take my bag. But what she says is, “You really think he went around destroying things then came in here to read a book about…” She looks at me. “What were you reading?”
“It’s a history book,” I reply. “About the…United States of America.” It’s the first time I’ve said the phrase aloud and it feels odd on my tongue.
“A history book, Ms. Hendricks.”
“I don’t care what he’s reading. Call the police.”
Reluctantly, Ms. Davis walks over to a wall-mounted com-phone. In that moment, neither woman is looking in my direction, so I slip one hand into my satchel and grab the strap with my other. Once my fingers find the correct buttons, I pull the bag to me and push the emergency escape combination.
Both women disappear as my perspective shifts ten feet and I’m dumped on the ground. I can only imagine the librarians’ reactions. At least they weren’t looking at me when I winked out. They’ll probably find some rational way to explain what happened to me.
I pull my satchel’s strap over my head and get to my feet. At the table, my earlier self is slumped on top of the book, sound asleep. I’m tempted to wake him up and tell him to get out of here, but I’ve already made my escape so it makes sense to let things play out.
The book, which I would dearly like to grab and take with me, has to stay, or else it would change the things that are about to happen. I could come back for it later, but I think it best to avoid this library from now on. I set the Chaser to take me just outside the building at dawn, but before I press GO, a poster on the wall catches my eye. It’s an announcement of an upcoming “continuing education” seminar at the “Central Library.”
A central library sounds like a place that would have all the information I need. I hastily write the address on a piece of paper. As I finish, I hear footsteps in the hallway, soft and distant, but heading in this direction.
It’s time for me to leave.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My priorities are simple: survive, learn, fix.
I focus first on survival.
Several blocks from the library, I spot another 7-Eleven. The red, green, and white sign has become comforting and familiar in a world full of the unknown.
Upon entering, I find many customers waiting in a line to pay for the items they’ve selected. My first step is to get an understanding of the money used here in the United States of America, so I pretend to be interested in some of the goods around the front end of the counter. From there I have a perfect view of the clerk and each customer he helps.
The money seems to come in three different forms — paper, coins, and some kind of plastic card. The first two are just like money from home, only instead of the colorful notes we have, the type in use here seems to be uniformly green and white. I see denominations of one and five and what I think is twenty, though the last passes quickly between hands so I can’t be sure. The coins are too small for me to see their designations, but they probably won’t be too hard to figure out. The type I don’t fully understand is the plastic card. When used, it isn’t given to the clerk but run through a machine on the counter, and then kept by the customer. The cards also seem to come in a wide variety of colors. I decide to avoid them for now. Sticking with the less complicated notes and coins should be enough to get me through.