The walk from my apartment to work was glorious, a symphony of reds, yellows, oranges, and even some pretty shades of brown, if you can imagine them, swirled around me with every chilly gust of wind. This was exactly the kind of weather I loved. It was great for tea drinking and book reading by the fireplace, which I didn't have but I always wanted. I had actually searched far and wide for bookstores and coffee shops all over the greater Detroit metropolitan area, and came up with a very short list of those with fireplaces and enough privacy to allow me to read in peace for hours on end. Not that I've had occasion to visit any of them more than a few times since my life tends to be consumed with what most normal twenty-one-year-olds do; namely, working my tail off to pay off my college debt.

I pushed through the heavy glass and iron doors of the Woodward County Library. "Good morning, Gabby," I greeted my supervisor as I do every day, with a much too cheery voice for her tastes. It was obvious that she didn't like mornings. She made it obvious. To everyone. After about three cups of strong coffee, she became much more civil, which didn't always equal civilized.

"Morning," she greeted me in her mumbled monotone.

"Is Beth here yet?" I asked politely, setting a cup of coffee on my friend's desk.

Gabby gave me the look, the one that said, Does it look like she's here yet?!

I decided to leave her with her beloved cup of java. I guessed it was her second or third, so I expected that she might be approachable by the time I finished clearing out the book return.

Gabrielle Hudson. As I grabbed the rolling cart, I wondered what made her tick. She wasn't an ogre or anything, but my coworkers and I had learned to read her moods and tread lightly around her. I'd worked here for several years and she hadn't opened up much about her life. I knew that she was about twice my age, maybe a little older, and that she had just sent the second of her two sons off to college in a different state. Her husband died of a heart attack a few years ago and she was gone for a few months after that, understandably. When she came back, she seemed even more closed off, which was made sense, I suppose, as grief often brings about deep depression. But it seemed to me that if she had just lost her soul mate, she might have wanted to reach out for friendship; apparently, she didn't operate that way.

I was startled by the loud ding signaling the arrival of the elevator. It was more like a bike bell that an obnoxious ten-year-old kid was holding right next to my ear. This was a library, after all, and it's not like the elevator ding had to rise above a bunch of noise. I rubbed my ears, casting a mindful glance at Gabby. I had repeatedly requested that we replace the ridiculous bell for something more library-friendly.

I rolled the unwieldy metal cart onto the elevator and punched B for the basement. I felt kind of sorry for Gabby, to be honest. Barely in her fifties, she was all alone. I had no idea what her children were like, but from the little she had said, it didn't sound like they were the type to come back home and settle nearby so they could be close to Mama. It was hard for me to relate; I had only moved twenty miles away from my parents when I started college at Wayne State, and even that was hard for me at first. Now, Downtown D-town was my home, but it was a comfortable arrangement since they were still so close.

I had worked at the library for four years. I graduated in the spring and I was working full-time so I could save money for grad school. I had thoroughly enjoyed college, from the friends I made to the coursework itself, but the break from cramming for exams was nice. I loved to read, which helped, but not everything that passed my eyes in college was for pleasure.

Arriving in the basement, I shoved the stubborn cart next to the depository bin. There's a chute from street level where library patrons can return their books at any time of the day or night; it's actually more of a conveyor belt so the books don't come crashing down and get broken or torn. When I was little, I couldn't understand how placing my books in that mailbox-looking thing sent them back to the library. I thought maybe the postman picked them up and brought them back to the library for me, thinking that our little library branch in my hometown was the one and only library.

The bin was always overflowing after a weekend. I sighed as I began the task of retrieving books, scanning them, and then sorting them by call number as I placed them on the cart. That would make the job of re-shelving them infinitely easier. I was very grateful for the computer and scanner next to the bin. That was my first brilliant idea when I first started here four years ago. It was an easy installation, and it streamlined the check-in process since it didn't tie up the computers at the check out desk, and it offered the benefit of not being interrupted by questions from the patrons while performing the tedious task.

It took me the better part of an hour to process the books. I shoved the now much heavier cart back towards the elevator. When the doors opened on the first floor, I caught sight of Beth.

She heard the ding and turned towards it. "Hey Regan! Thanks for the joe," she called, in a library-appropriate voice, of course. She eyed the massively loaded cart. "Wow, that is quite the load."

"Tell me about it," I sighed, wedging it in the elevator door so I could talk to her for a minute or two. Gabby's displeased frown didn't get by me, but I ignored it. "Most of these go back to the third floor, so guess where I'll be spending the next few hours."

"Oooh, the stacks," Beth said in a ghostly voice. She always teased me because I didn't like the third floor. It was usually a graveyard. Hardly anyone ever went up there, which made me wonder how so many books had been checked out from there in the first place. We referred to the entire third floor as the stacks, although part of it was the archives. The ancient floor-to-ceiling metal shelves holding the actively circulating books were the same kinds used for archives, so the whole floor had a historical feel. Imagine poodle skirts and saddles shoes and that's the last time I think the place had a makeover.

"Do you want me to do it?" Beth asked me in a sympathetic voice.

"No, it's okay. In fact, I think I'll start up there. Then the rest of the cart will be much lighter as I come down." I dropped to a whisper. "Besides, you're better at running interference until Gabby's coffee kicks in." I gave her a devious smile as I shoved the cart back onto the elevator and allowed the doors to close. The elevator began to groan as it ascended to the third floor. "Oh stop it!" I scolded the cantankerous old thing. "I'm not that heavy."

When the doors opened, I struggled, finally heaving the cart out of the elevator onto Floor 3. "Welcome to the reference section," I said to myself. The books up here were mostly things like dictionaries, atlases, encyclopedias, history books and for lack of a better term, coffee table books. You know, the ones with big, beautiful layouts of some unreachable jungle in Guam, the kind that kept you busy while you waited for a doctor's appointment. About 99 percent of the people I knew would search up any and all of that stuff on Google nowadays, myself included. But I appreciated books for their steadfast nature. No one could just wander into the library and change information in the encyclopedia. Books, in my mind, were real history, because history couldn't be changed simply by altering some details on Wikipedia. Even if the information in the 1962 Encyclopedia Britannica was no longer accurate or relevant, it provided a peek into what people understood to be fact fifty years ago.

I decided to start at the very back row and work my way forward. As I passed the last set of shelves before the door to the archives, I stopped and did a double take. At the other end of the row of shelves was a wooden table, with a green lamp perched on it, flanked by two yellow fiberglass chairs, which always reminded me of soup ladles.

What caught my attention was not only the fact that the lamp was on, but also that a man was seated at the table. I couldn't see his face because it was buried in a book. Over the top of the book, a wild mane of hair protruded in all directions, matted in some places, sticking straight up in others. It brought to mind the fur of my well-loved teddy bear, Beardy (pronounced Bare-dee), whom I had adopted when I was three. Beardy still lived with me, and he had a comfortable, but obscure, place on a shelf by my bed.

I was frozen in place for several seconds and I didn't really know why. The man had seized my curiosity, more than most library patrons. I didn't think I'd ever seen him here before, but then again, I couldn't see his face so I didn't know for sure. But what was truly odd was that I'd never seen anyone hole up in this part of the library before. Most people made their way to the newer, more comfortable and more modern areas of the library. The wifi didn't reach the third floor all that well either, so that was an issue for the aforementioned 99 percent of the population who would rather consult the internet for answers than to actually crack open an informational book.

I noticed a stack of nine or ten books on the flora and fauna of several South American countries sitting on the table next to him. I couldn't make out the titles, but I knew almost every book in the library by sight, believe it or not. I wouldn't admit it to anyone, but these books felt like part of my family.

Suddenly I felt like I was invading his personal space, even though he wasn't very close. I stopped staring and pushed the cart to the last aisle. I grabbed books one at a time, carefully squeezing them into their assigned spaces. I realized, as I was shelving the books on the cart, this load would take me all the way to the end and around the corner, passing they mystery man. It only briefly crossed my mind that he may be dangerous, deranged or delusional. It wouldn't be unheard of. But, really, a raging lunatic would likely have better places to hang out than the library.

I had too much to do, and I was still too curious, to let apprehension slow me down. I reached the end of the first stack and maneuvered the lumbering cart around the corner, where I was only a few feet away from him. I had resumed carefully wedging the books into their tight spaces when I noticed a smell, which seemed to be coming from his general direction, and it wasn't a pleasant smell. I glanced up at him and then back to the shelves. Between every few books that I put away, I chanced a look at him. His long, army green overcoat was decorated with odd floral and leaf-like appliqués in a drab golden-tan color. It actually looked rather clean, just wrinkly. However, his gray sweatpants told a different story, dirty and worn, and the shoes on his feet were so threadbare, they looked like they might fall right off.

At that point, I came to the conclusion that he must be homeless. It would make sense. The temperatures were dropping and I was fairly certain that the Sacred Heart Rescue Mission and other homeless shelters nearby only allowed people to stay overnight. During the day, they were sent out to look for work. This would be a warm place for him to hide away all day. I didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but that would explain the mess of clothes he was wearing, as well as the overwhelming evidence that he hadn't had a shower in quite some time.

I tried to finish quickly, but every few minutes, I was compelled to look up and see what he was doing, wondering if I should say hello. It felt rather rude not to do so, seeing as we were the only two on the floor, but then again, he was so engrossed in his books that he acted like he didn't notice I was there at all.

When I finally returned to the first floor, after shelving the second floor books as well, Beth drilled me. "Where have you been? Did you fall asleep? I thought maybe you were kidnapped or something."

I narrowed my eyes and challenged her. "If you were so worried, why didn't you come looking for me?"

"Well, I wasn't that worried," she laughed. "But still, you were gone forever."

Gabby was behind the desk, but she could hear our conversation. "She's right. You were gone a long time. I'm not paying you to slack off."

"I wasn't slacking off, Gabby," I replied in a slightly rebellious tone. "I had a lot of books to return to the third floor. Honestly."

I didn't say anything to the others about him. But Beth's words made me think. I thought maybe you were kidnapped. Maybe I shouldn't have let my guard down so easily when I was up there alone with a strange man. It wouldn't be hard to get away with something up there on the third floor. A guy could do practically anything to a woman up there and no one would find out, at least not for several hours, maybe even days.

I shook the thought from my head. In general, I trusted people, but I had learned to be wary, or appropriately cautious at least, living in downtown Detroit. For the vast majority of people who were harmless, there were always one or two who had ill intentions.

The rest of the day was uneventful. After shelving books, I put up some fall stickers in the library's front window, along with the phrase Fall Into A Good Book! I created a pile of construction paper leaves and placed a few children's books in the middle. I loved being in charge of the window display. My goal was to entice any and all who passed by with the promise of escaping into just the right book.

I walked home with even more enthusiasm than when I'd been heading to work this morning. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. But I also loved the solitude of my spacious loft apartment, with no distractions but the sound of my own breath or occasionally, some music of my choosing.

Living alone was the perfect arrangement for me. No, I wasn't a hermit, and yes, I had friends. I had just discovered, over time, that being alone in my private space gave me solace. It was a significant revelation for me after growing up in a family with five siblings. I had always shared a room with someone and there was never a place for me to have quiet time, even in our sizable farm house. Then, after sharing a dorm room for two years, I found a new and adventurous part of me when I rented my own place. I realized that I really liked being alone, that it didn't scare me like it did some other people. I was free to be exactly who I was.

The funny thing was that my college roommate had become one of my best friends, and I never resented having to share a room with her. In fact, even after we stopped being room-mates, we still spent tons of time together until she graduated and moved back to Kentucky. Her name was Ginger, which was ironic since she had beautiful ebony hair and warm coloring from her Cherokee heritage, while I was the true ginger with my flaming red hair.

After hanging up my coat and scarf, I opened a can of soup, dumped it into a bowl to heat in the microwave, and pulled down some saltines from the cupboard. That was my usual supper, something from a can or box. I hardly ever cooked. I knew how, to some extent, but I didn't like to waste time preparing something I would eat in five or ten minutes. I'd rather sink into my comfy sofa and read next to my imaginary fireplace. I swore that as soon as I had saved enough money, I'd get a place that actually had one. But for now, I still had to think about saving up for grad school.

With my soup, crackers and a cup of lemon-herb tea, I sunk into my favorite corner of the couch and entered one of my favorite book worlds. Soon, my real life faded as I became the heroine in a romantic tale of a girl who was rescued from outlaws by a handsome cowboy.

_____

Yeah - first chapter! What do you think so far?

I had a worn blue teddy bear when I was little, so well-loved that his fur was rubbed off. I wish I still had him. His name was Beardy, so I dedicate this chapter to him, LOL.