Free The Incident Report by Martha Baillie

the freckled hands. Now that I have found you, I will not let you from my sight. No further harm, that is my promise to you.
    I made a quick tour of the children’s area, but discovered nothing unusual. I did not feel frightened but experienced a curious floating sensation. I thoughtof Suitcase Man, but suddenly realized he could not be the writer as he’d not come in all day. “It’s not Suitcase Man,” I announced to myself, and I no longer wanted an answer. I willed myself to remove my hands from my pockets.

INCIDENT REPORT 74
    This evening, a sultry summer evening under clear skies, at precisely 7:05, a worker from a local group home returned a number of items—ten in total—which she had retrieved from the room of Kevin Winkler.
    Mr. Winkler, a former resident of the group home, had torn the barcodes and library labels off most of the items. Some were charged out on his record, others presumably stolen. Several he’d ripped apart and used as wall decorations. Most were between six and eight months overdue.
    The worker said she would sleep well, now that her conscience was clear. I told her it is difficult to bear responsibility for the actions of others.

INCIDENT REPORT 77
    â€œLet the cops deal with these people. They’re paid more than we are,” concluded Nila Narayan, filing off the ragged edge of her fingernail.
    â€œMy God, girls, how do we bear it, serving patrons who have lost their minds and weep all over you one minute, then bite your head off the next? Not to mention those who piss in their pants and can’t seem to find their bloody way to a shower. Have they never heard of soap? You’d think it hadn’t been invented. The stench. I tell you, we ought to be paid twice as much as some of those cows in administration who haven’t a goddamn idea, if you’ll pardon my French.”
    She put away her nail file, and crossed the workroom.
    â€œFour more hours to go, girls. I think I hear a toilet overflowing. Shall we close the branch? I don’t think I’ll last until 8:30.”
    She threw her arm dramatically across her forehead.
    â€œThank bloody goodness for tea. Who’ll have a cup?”
    She reached down and plugged in the kettle.

INCIDENT REPORT 80
    â€œJanko, Janko, where are you hiding?”
    â€œI’m not hiding.”
    His voice came from the bedroom. I took off my shoes, went into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.
    â€œWhen did you lose your finger?”
    â€œI already told you”
    â€œTell me again.”
    â€œI was nine and trying to repair my bicycle. My finger caught between the spokes, and the bicycle rolled.”
    â€œHow did it roll?”
    â€œOne of my brothers pushed it. He didn’t see what I was doing. I was hunched over. I’d leaned my bicycle against a tree. My brother, he was running and suddenly he saw the seat of the bicycle and the trunk of the tree, and he had an idea.
    â€œMy brother had his idea quickly. The idea came as he ran. He wanted to know what would happen if he shoved the bicycle. How loudly would the bicycle crash? How badly would I yell at him? He would keep running, right through the noise, faster and faster—that was his idea.”
    â€œThe idea came to him, just like that? His clever idea that cost you a finger.”
    â€œHe wanted to see what would happen. Miriam, Darkest Miriam, have you never wanted to see what would happen?”

INCIDENT REPORT 81
    This afternoon, that is to say, Thursday at 3:05, a man named Carl Blake was walking along the alley behind the library when another man approached him.
    This second man, claiming to be a “producer,” suggested that Carl write a book. As Carl was on his way to vote in the municipal election, he happened to be carrying with him the voter’s card sent to him by the government. The “producer” took Carl’s voter’s card and wrote his own name and phone number in