Lost Hunters

03 - The Library Card

Content Warning: Non-Euclidean Spaces, Impossible Architecture, Cognitive Hazard, Gun Violence

I.

He had always loved libraries. Ever since he was a boy. They'd lured him in with the air conditioning. But he'd ended up staying for the books.

Crosby stepped inside, letting the door slowly swing shut behind him. This place wasn't large, to him, nothing like the huge building he would always associate with the term. But this library had clearly been a mansion at one point, obviously the home of one of the rich white families back when the town was founded.

It was pretty, from the outside. Part brick, part faded shingles, a rambling Colonial with a sadly unused wraparound porch. It sat right on the town commons, staring out over an empty green field and a few scattered oak trees.

"Good afternoon!" a chipper voice said, coming out from behind the counter. "How can I help you today, sir?"

It was a young man, fresh-faced and wearing a spotless polo shirt. Crosby took his hat off, a worn but cared-for fedora. He didn't like showing what little hair he had left. Too much salt in his pepper these days.

But he was indoors. He squinted at the young man's name tag. Needed his glasses to read most of the time, but he could see it almost well enough. Melissa?

"Now I know that I am a bit old-fashioned," Crosby said, pausing briefly to clear his throat. "And I don't want to be rude. I understand I should ask how you prefer to be called?"

"Simon," he said, his eyes slightly unfocusing for a second. "My name is...Simon."

Crosby gave him a long look, not lingering at all on the nametag. "I meant your pronouns, kid."

Simon didn't seem to hear that. "What do you prefer to be called?"

"Oh I'm just an old gentleman," Crosby said, not sounding at all like he had almost said colored gentleman. He understood that was old-fashioned, too. "He and him, if you please."

"Will you be checking out any books today, sir?" Simon asked.

Crosby took his coat off, making a show of looking around for somewhere to hang it. He had noticed the moment he'd walked in that there was nowhere to do so, and even if there had been he probably couldn't have reached it. The lobby was crowded with carts full of books, overflowing, piled-up returns with little cards sticking out the top. Waiting to be checked in.

He folded his trenchcoat in half and draped it over one arm, still holding his hat. Odd, sure. Still not as unusual as the full parking lot.

It had warmed his heart to see a full parking lot at a library, he had to admit.

"Will you be checking out any books today, sir?" Simon asked again.

"We'll see," Crosby said, stepping farther inside. He squeezed through the narrow aisle between book-laden carts, leather shoes clacking against the hardwood floors.

Cheap hardwood floors. Not even hardwood, he realized. Bright laminate. It broke Crosby's heart to imagine what they must have looked like back when this was still a home. He heard Simon's footsteps following behind him.

"Can I just say, you are very well dressed, sir?" Simon said.

Crosby scoffed, very quietly. Anybody with any kind of eye would've noticed that his bowtie and pocket square were polyester, his shoes old and scuffed, his waistcoat an out-of-date cut. He didn't respond, walking on into the first room of the library.

It was an enormous room, tall-ceilinged and stretching out like a great hall. Probably made a fine space for a banquet or a ball, back in the day. Now it held rows of desks, stark white walls peeking out around massive bookcases.