During the bright day, people come and go, smile at a boy reading quietly on his own. I eat Dahl and drink Morpurgo. I breathe Lewis and sweat Tolkien. They sustain me but I am lonely. There are no other library boys. I know this because I’ve looked. I try to feel around in the darkness, under the book stacks, behind the counter. I finger the inky stamp that kisses each willing flyleaf. I look through the gaps in the sparser shelves, but there’s no one. I’m alone.
So instead I migrate from cover to cover foraging for what I need. I never find out what my name is.