I felt like I was on that old game show where you had three minutes to race around the supermarket finding all the things on your list. I practically trampled a roaming toddler to get at A Wrinkle in Time, and then I grabbed The Westing Game and Haroun and the Sea of Stories and Five Children and It. He followed me, holding the backpack open while I dumped things in. It was starting to look full, and I didn’t want Sonya to be suspicious, but I couldn’t resist adding The Princess Bride.
It gave me pause, for a moment, that all my reference points were fiction, that all my narratives were lies.
Note: what a fantastic book
I believed that books might save him because I knew they had so far, and because I knew the people books had saved. They were college professors and actors and scientists and poets. They got to college and sat on dorm floors drinking coffee, amazed they’d finally found their soul mates. They always dressed a little out of season. Their names were enshrined on the pink cards in the pockets of all the forgotten hardbacks in every library basement in America. If the librarians were lazy enough or nostalgic enough or smart enough, those names would stay there forever.