Lending a Paw(4)

Never once had I been late for work. Never. I always arrived on time for appointments and I’d developed such a reputation for arriving at the stated hour to parties that my friends routinely sent me invitations with a different starting time. Now, with so much riding on what happened today, there I was, skimming the edge of lateness.

I hurried up the hill and away from the marina, practically running through the narrow side streets. The library, a handsome L-shaped brick building, sat on the far side of downtown. To my left, I knew the majestic Lake Michigan would be an inviting horizon of blue, and behind me the adjacent Janay Lake would be glittering in the sunshine, but I didn’t have time for my normal backward glances of appreciation.

“Morning, Minnie.” The owner of the bakery was putting out his sidewalk sign. OPEN. FREE SMELLS. “Say, did you know—”

“Talk to you later, Tom, okay?” I waved as I went past. “Running late today.”

After three blocks of antique stores, art galleries, clothing boutiques, and the occasional bookstore, fudge shop, and coffee shop, I reached the library. But instead of using my keys to let myself in the side door as per usual, I went around back. Then around the back of the back, past the employee parking and past the bins for cardboard recycling and trash. There, on the far side of the auxiliary parking lot, which was used only when famous authors came to speak, was the thing that was going to make or break my career.

The bookmobile.

Though it was inside a brand-new garage, I could almost see its wavy blue-painted graphics in the bright morning sun, its bright white letters emblazoned across its sides: CHILSON DISTRICT LIBRARY BOOKMOBILE. All fresh and spanking clean and waiting for me to . . . to what?

With a sudden and unwelcome rush, anxiety and dread darkened the shiny morning. Doubts assailed me from every direction. There was no way I’d be able to—

“Stop that.” I took a firmer grip on the straps of my backpack. Hearing the words out loud made me feel better, and since there wasn’t a soul around to hear, I kept going. “I haven’t been carsick in years. I’ve taught myself how to read maps and bought a GPS, and since the bookmobile was my idea, I’m the one to run it. I can do this. And I’ll do it right.”

The night before, I’d slid the driver’s daily checklist into my backpack. In ten minutes I was scheduled to be driving out of the parking lot and to my first stop on the opposite side of the county. It was time to hurry.

I unlocked the garage, climbed into the driver’s seat, tossed my backpack onto the passenger’s seat, started the engine, and backed the bookmobile out into the sun. Though the library director had grudgingly agreed to have a garage built for the bookmobile, it wasn’t any bigger than it had to be. Doing the pretrip check outside would be much easier. I turned off the engine, pulled the hood release, and went outside. “Water level, oil level,” I muttered, checking off the list as I went. “Good, and good.” I hurried back inside and started the engine. Gauges, all good. No weird engine noises. Very good.

Back outside to check tire pressure, back in and back out to check the lights and turn signals. Back inside to check a dozen other things. Fellow drivers had assured me that it would get to be habit within a matter of days, that soon I wouldn’t need the checklist. I almost, but not quite, believed this.

I ticked off the last item (“loose books secured”), shut the door, and slid into the driver’s seat.

The bookmobile’s dashboard clock stared at me accusingly. “Yes, I’m a minute late,” I told it as I buckled myself in. “If you don’t tell Stephen, I’ll give you a good vacuuming tonight.”

I could have sworn I heard a sniff.

First day as the bookmobile driver and I was already hearing things. Outstanding.

As I put my hand on the gearshift, a rush of excitement prickled my skin. It was actually happening. The bookmobile was real, and I was driving it. I was going to bring books back to the small towns who’d had their branch libraries closed. I was going to bring books to schools and senior centers and people who were homebound. This outreach program was going to make a difference. I was going to make a difference.

A happy grin spread wide across my face. It was a beautiful morning, the finest in months, maybe the finest ever, and this day was going to be one of the best ever and—

“Mrr.”





Chapter 2


I blinked. Had I heard what I thought I’d heard? No. Absolutely not. Insanity was far preferable. “Eddie?” I asked tentatively.

He sat up, yawning, revealing himself from where he’d been lying behind the backpack I’d tossed onto the passenger’s seat.