What Books Say When No One Is Listening
Eli's grandfather worked the night shift at the town library. Tonight, for the first time, Eli was allowed to come along.
The library was very different at night.
The lamps were off. The reading-room chairs were tucked in. The big clock by the door ticked very loudly because there was no other sound.
Grandfather made tea on a small camping stove behind the desk. He gave Eli a mug.
"At midnight," he said, very seriously, "the books talk."
Eli laughed.
Grandfather did not laugh.
At eleven minutes to midnight, Eli felt the air change. The library got even quieter, the way a room does just before something happens.
At midnight exactly, a quiet, small voice said, "I think someone took me out without due care."
Eli jumped. The voice came from a thin paperback on the trolley.
"My spine is bent," said the paperback, sadly.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Grandfather, who was not surprised at all.
The other books started talking too. Carefully. Politely. They had complaints, and observations, and one of them — a big atlas — had a very long anecdote about Iceland. It was nice in there.
Eli walked between the shelves with his mug, very small, listening.
"Excuse me," said a book of poems. "Could you turn me the right way up?"
Eli did.
"Thank you," said the book. "I had been like that for two days."
By two in the morning, the books were quietening down again. They each said