The library is cool and cavernous after the wet heat of the ride here, and I can almost feel steam rising from my skin as I stand in the fiction section after picking up my one reserved book. I promised myself I wouldn't check out any others, but all restraint deserts me in the stacks, amidst the worlds and voices beckoning to me from the shelves.
I carry my shame (a novel, a book of short stories, a graphic novel, and a book of poetry) to the check-out, and try to look nonchalant as the librarian informs me I owe them money for a previously late item.
"I don't suppose you might be willing to let that slide this time around, would you?" I ask, while he eyes my record sceptically, like a parole office going over a dubious rap sheet.