I knew there was a problem when I woke up. I was too well rested like I’d somehow managed to sleep the entire night. Guilt and unanswered questions had made sure I hadn’t been able to sleep well in days.
It all started when I found Dickens’s Great Expectations on the ‘Reshelf’ cart. A small recipe sub was wedged between pages 104 and 105, evidence that the previous author had given up reading prematurely (and seeing as it was Dickens, I couldn’t blame them). One side of the paper was completely beguine, showing the owner had purchased a coffee from one of the many street vendors a few weeks back. Flipping it over I found the words “31760095E Main” scrawled in red pen. It didn’t make much sense at the time but I pocketed the slip of paper. Either because I got too busy or simply forgot, the receipt remained unnoticed on my nightstand- until Nym started pounding on my door one morning.
It wasn’t like her at all. Nym, with her dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and slender, long legs, was polite if not a little aloof. This morning, however, she completely discarded our unvoiced agreement to avoid each other as much as possible in our 600 sqf apartment. Dressing quickly, I headed out into the living room. The news was playing on our small TV screen. Black smoke billowed out of a large, six-story office building. The words “Explosion wipes out power over several blocks” ticked across the top in bright red. My first panicked thoughts where about my parents and coworkers.
“Where was it?” I demanded.
“95th East Main.”
Good. I didn’t know anyone who lived around that area of the city. Something began to niggle in the back of my brain.
”They say it happened at 6 o’clock on the dot,” Nym said without me asking. We continued to watch the coverage together in silence for a while. Then the niggling started again.
”What’s todays date?” I asked.
Her sigh told me she was quickly getting tired of my company and regretting waking me up in the first place. ”It’s the seventeenth.” There must have been something about the look on my face because she quickly added, ”Why?”
Without answering, I sprinted back to my room and flipped the receipt over to reveal the red writing again. ”31760095E Main.” The slight dread that had played across by brain bloomed into full out panic. ”March 17, 6:00, 95 East Main.”
Nearly knocking Nym out of the way, I bolted into the shared bathroom and locked to door. I tore the slip of paper into pieces and set them on fire using a nearby lighter. Still feeling unsatisfied, I flushed the ashes down the toilet. Only after pushing the button did I realize my mistake. My initial worry had been that this piece of paper could link me to the bombing, albeit accidentally. However, in destroying the paper I was, in fact, an acting accomplice. I tried to assure myself that no one knew about my crime but the thought was less than comforting.
Later, I tried to look up who was the last person to check that book out. The answer was Mildred Backer, a woman of 23 who has been deceased for over ten years.
I open my eyes and roll over to glance over at the now empty spot of the nightstand. Next to it, my alarm clock flashes 1200 in red, evidence that some electrical surge knocked it out. Groaning I roll out of bed, strip out of my grey regulation pajamas, shower, and don my navy regulation work uniform complete with a navy polo shirt and navy slacks. Some people complain about the color but I figure its yards better than street worker orange or cab driver yellow or landscaper green. Only a few of us get a more flexible clothing uniform- the scientists, the businessmen- something about boosting productivity. I suppose no one cares about productive librarians.
