“No,” Sophie said, her thumb moving to the silver ring on her hand. “I want to keep it. Let’s leave it right here where it won’t get lost again.”
She carefully placed the pink shovel back on the middle shelf, aligning it with the edge of the wood.
Then she turned and walked back down the hallway toward her bedroom.
I stood by the open door, the new lightbulb cold in my hand, looking at the cheap plastic toy.
The sight of the pink shovel sitting alone on the closet shelf.
By Tuesday morning, the Shorewood Public Library was damp from the rain, the smell of wet wool rising from the return bin. I stood at the front desk, scanning the bar codes on three historical novels while the overhead fluorescent lights hummed.
The barcode scanner emitted a short, flat beep with each swipe, a steady rhythm that usually kept my mind quiet.
My phone vibrated twice against the laminate wood of the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification from a social media application I rarely checked.
