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He hissed, staggering, but didn’t drop the makeshift weapon. Books exploded from the Librarian’s chest like shrapnel—fat tomes spinning end‑over‑end, paperbacks whistling like bricks, and loose pages turning to razor‑edged confetti. “Down!” Grant shouted. We hit the drift. A dictionary the size of a concrete block shrieked past my ear, slamming into the ground where my head had been, crushing a mound of pages into paste. The librarian reared back, chains writhing. “AUTHORS ARE RESOURCES,” it thundered. “NOT OPERATORS. NOT FREE.”

Mom supported me, not because she understood, but because she loved me and wanted me to be happy. I stood up and walked around the library, feeling a little restless. They had all of the classics, and some of them looked as though they were expensive copies. Other authors that I regularly read, such as James Patterson and Dean Koontz were on the shelves. They even had some of my female favorites, such as Lisa Jackson, Lisa Gardner and Heather Graham Pozzessere. Then I wondered down to another section where I found some more provocative books. They had a lot of erotica books. One huge volume stood out: The Kama Sutra.