Free Runt by Nora Raleigh Baskin Page A

before he saw the car or heard any footsteps on the walkway, or smelled his boy’s wonderful, familiar scent. Something was going to happen and it wasn’t good.

PC
----
    The town librarians weren’t at all prepared for the crowds, although they probably should have been. They were the only Wi-Fi hot spot in a fifty-mile radius. They had lights, running water, and cable Internet service. Mr. Werner had called in both Mrs. Frances Greely and Ms. Laura Charles to work that day. Every computer terminal was in use, with a long string of names on the waiting list. Those waiting were supposed to sit quietly and read, but there simply weren’t enough chairs. The restrooms were a mess, and the noise alone could have sent any one of the librarians to the madhouse.
    â€œThat’s a very outdated term, Fran.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œ Madhouse . You know. Lunatic asylum. That’s so eighteenth century.”
    â€œLaurie, it’s an expression, not a politically correct statement, for goodness sake. It’s just mayhem in here. I think every single middle school and high school student from the whole district is here.” Mrs. Greely was checking in books from the return bin. You never knew what you were going to find pressed in those pages, the things people used as bookmarks and then forgot to remove before returning.
    â€œHmm, you’re right. And considering half the town has left or is staying in hotels, this is pretty crazy. What are these children looking up , anyway?”
    Mrs. Greely flipped through the pages of the Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology , Prometheus Press, New York, 1959, before she put it on the cart to take it back to the stacks. There seemed to be some new stains on the fabric cover—they didn’t make books like this anymore—but otherwise it was fine.
    â€œFor the life of me, I can’t imagine,” Mrs. Greely answered. She lifted out the next book and gave it a little shake. “Their e-mail?”
    â€œKids don’t e-mail any more,” Ms. Charles said.“They check their person2person page. They listen to music and watch videos.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œAnd they don’t talk on the phone. They text.”
    â€œOh, I know.”
    â€œOr Twitter.”
    â€œTwitter?”
    â€œI mean, look at that girl over there.” Ms. Charles pointed. “She hasn’t moved in eighteen minutes. She’s just staring at that screen like a zombie.”
    â€œShe certainly is transfixed, isn’t she?”
    Mrs. Greely pulled out the next book, A Candle in Her Room by Ruth M. Arthur, Aladdin Books, 1966. It had been one of Mrs. Greely’s favorite books when she was a child, and she wondered who had taken it out to read.
    â€œWell, she can’t sit there much longer, and I sure hope she read the sign about the thirty-minute maximum computer time. I hate having to remind these people.”
    The book was so magical. It was scary and romantic, suspenseful and mysterious. It was everything a book could or should be. Mrs. Greely held it tight to her chest as if her love for the book could seep into it, out of her heart. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
    â€œFran? Are you listening to me?”
    â€œYes, of course, Laurie. You hate to have to remind the kids when their turn is up. I’ll do it.”
    Mrs. Greely slowly tilted the book down and studied the cover. It was the same sketchy illustration she remembered, of a girl in a sweater poking a stick into high leaping flames. The same crinkly plastic paper over the dust jacket. Oh, yes, the doll. There was a magical, evil doll named . . . named Dido. She had been so enraptured by the book that she wanted to own it. She wanted it to be hers.
    She loved it so much she had memorized the first and last sentence:
    I suppose if we had not come to Prembrokeshire, Judith, Briony and I, this story would never have been written. There would have been no