Walker Sheffield’s bookstore was a cramped space, but he’d done everything he could to make it inviting and comfortable for the diminishing number of people still willing to buy books at shops like his.

First and foremost were the books. Nearly every inch of cream-colored wall space was covered with sturdy oak shelves, stretching from the floor to just a yard shy of the ceiling. Additional shelves were spaced out on the carpeted floor, standing back to back, not as high as the shelves on the wall, but high enough to ensure that the aisles they created were as intimate and isolated as they could be. Then there were the tables, two of them, heavy and wide, nearly filling the space just inside the entrance, weighted down with stacks of the latest trade paperbacks.

Books, nearly everywhere they looked, meant that people entering Sheffield Books might not feel discouraged. It seemed possible, even likely, that even though it wasn’t a Barnes & Noble, the book they were looking for was there. Increasing the odds was the fact that after ten years in business, Walker knew the Vandeveld neighborhood well, knew what its residents liked and what they didn’t. He’d developed a skill for knowing which books to stock and which to pass on, to anticipate his customers’ wants.

For comfort, he’d installed two plush overstuffed easy chairs at the rear of the store, tucked under opposite ends of the large window that took up the back wall. He’d bought the chairs used, not caring that they were worn and needed patching. In fact, he preferred them that way. New and sturdy chairs belonged in a different store catering to different customers. Quickly it had proven to be another wise choice. Even on especially slow days, the chairs were rarely unoccupied.

Finally, there was the light, the thing that had first grabbed Walker’s attention when he’d been shopping around for a place to open a store. The space had been empty then, the walls battered white, the floor bare concrete and littered with debris. But the wall opposite the entrance — a tall expanse of sectioned glass, nine windows in columns of three each — was the first thing he noticed. It filled the space with light, the earthy glow coming from without enhanced by the wood frames and latticing. Outside all one could see was sky. It was the ideal space in which to discover a book.

It was Saturday, and Kyle stood at the back of the store, pulling down overstock. As well as Walker managed to carry only the books that would appeal to the residents of Vandeveld, there were always books left unsold, and they needed to be returned. Kyle had worked at Sheffield Books long enough to achieve the status of assistant manager, and it was he who had the responsibility of deciding which books to send back. Yet there were no small jobs at Sheffield Books, and so it was Kyle too who had been given the task of pulling the books off the shelves. Menial work, it involved little more than stacking the books in the dust atop the shelves, and it felt like an affront to his otherwise high level of responsibility.

Kyle was a student at the University of Washington, majoring in English literature, and he’d started working there two years before, when, in his freshman year, he’d begun running out of money. It had been a financial decision, but it had seemed like a good fit with his studies, and so he’d leapt at the opportunity as if it had been an academic choice. It hadn’t taken long before it had started to seem less like a learning experience and more like just a job, but he’d stuck with it. He loved books, which one could perhaps deduce from his thickening physique, and maybe one day he’d use his knowledge to open a bookstore of his own. If so, a few years at Sheffield Books would do him some good.

The Saturday morning crowd was thin. A few strays were drifting down Vandeveld Avenue, but none seemed interested in books. When suddenly a young girl appeared at the front counter, Kyle was surprised. He hadn’t heard the door open; he didn’t know how long she’d been waiting. Seeing Kyle at the back of the store, she smiled, as if to thank him for finally acknowledging her presence. Kyle set down the books he was holding and moved around behind the counter.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a present for my father,” the girl said. “It’s a bestseller, but I didn’t see it on your front tables. Maybe you’re out of it?”

She was a pretty child, with bright blue eyes and thick blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Kyle guessed that she was about twelve, way too young for him, but still he felt awkward standing in front of her. His short, dark hair was unwashed and uncombed, he hadn’t shaved since Wednesday, and his heavy belly pushed out the front of his wrinkled grey T-shirt. He considered himself an intellectual and thus above things like fashion and fitness, yet at times like these it was hard not to wish he were someone else.

“Okay,” Kyle said. “What’s the book called?”

“I can’t remember the name,” the girl said. “But it’s by Bill O’Reilly. His new book.”

“Bill O’Reilly,” Kyle sighed, and his awkwardness slipped away. This girl wasn’t just in the wrong bookstore; she was in the wrong city. “Yeah, you’re not going to find any Bill O’Reilly books here.”

“I’m not? But his book’s a bestseller. You don’t have bestsellers here?”

The girl seemed genuinely perplexed. Evidently her looks were all she had going for her. Only twelve years old and already a hopeless case.

“We have bestsellers here,” Kyle informed her, shaking his head. “Our bestsellers. The books that our customers want to buy. Which don’t include books by Bill O’Reilly, or Rush Limbaugh, or Ann Coulter, or Sean Hannity, or any other fascist hate-mongerers. You want Bill O’Reilly, go to Borders. They stock everything, they don’t care.”

The girl’s eyes had gone wide, but she didn’t seem seriously upset. She was laughing at him, Kyle realized, and like that his awkwardness was revived. Why had he not shaved or showered? Why had he worn the T-shirt he’d slept in to work? Why did beauty always trump intelligence?

“Can I help you with anything else?” he asked.

“Yes,” the girl said, and then she spoke slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. “Could you call Borders for me and see if they have the book? I’d hate to go all the way down there just to find out they don’t have it either.”

“Listen–” Kyle hissed, seething.

But whatever he’d planned on telling the girl would never be known. At that moment, a door behind him opened, and Walker emerged, wearing a pointedly warm smile.

“Kyle?” he said, in a friendly tone. “Is there something I can help out with?”

“Sure, Walker,” Kyle said. He stepped to one side, and Walker took his place at the counter. “This young lady is looking for Bill O’Reilly’s new book.”

“Ah, yes,” Walker said. “A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity, I think it’s called. Great title, don’t you think?” he asked the girl.

“Sure,” the girl agreed. “But he said you don’t carry books by fascists.”

“Well, of course we carry books by fascists,” Walker said, looking confused. “We’ve got Mein Kampf, for example. And wasn’t that even your idea?” he asked Kyle.

Walker was the worst, Kyle thought, not for the first time. Smart and good-looking. And he’d even managed to marry a smart and good-looking woman and have a smart and good-looking son. Kyle desperately wanted to walk away, to return to pulling down overstock. But he’d been asked a question.

“Mein Kampf is an important historical document,” he explained. “It has educational value.”

“And don’t we also have My Rise and Fall?” Walker went on. “And that book by Codreanu–?”

“Again, all historically important,” Kyle insisted.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Walker said, his attention now focused on the girl. “Why don’t you ask Ryan to come inside?”

The girl smiled sweetly, and she flushed.

“Ryan?” Kyle asked, agitation replaced by confusion.

“Yes, Ryan,” Walker confirmed. Then he asked the girl, “You’re Michelle, right?”

The girl nodded.

“Nice to meet you. My name’s Walker.”

***

Inside the small office behind the counter, which felt crowded despite containing only a desk and a wooden chair, Walker opened a narrow door and waved them forward.

Ryan moved aside to let Michelle through.

“My father’s hideaway,” he said.

“My den,” Walker corrected good-naturedly.

She stepped past Ryan and Walker and found herself at the top of a wooden staircase. She stood there for a moment, looking down, her face lit from beneath.

She was beautiful in a way that hurt Ryan, knowing that a day would come when she would no longer be his. One day she would exist only in memories. As a young boy, he’d read enough to be familiar with the path of romance, how it inevitably led to loss.

“Cool,” Michelle said as she descended.

Walker waited for Ryan to follow her, and as his son approached him he flashed an approving smile. This pleased Ryan; his father’s approval always did. Most of the time he expected Walker’s approval, yet couldn’t always be sure of it.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ryan and Walker found Michelle standing in the center of the basement, pivoting slowly, examining her surroundings.

As in the bookstore, most of the walls here were covered with shelves, but these shelves were laden with old books, their spines cracked and stained. The concrete floor was covered with a worn and faded oriental rug, its fringes in tangles. Opposite the foot of the stairs, under the room’s lone window, was an antique easy chair. Next to the chair was an end table, on which sat a book and a coffee mug. The window was covered with a burgundy curtain.

“Have you read all these books?” Michelle asked.

“These and a lot more,” Walker said, picking his mug up off the end table and taking a sip. “But these are my favorites. Why don’t you grab a couple of chairs, Ryan?”

Ryan reached under the staircase and grabbed two of the rickety wooden chairs that Walker kept tucked away there. He placed them in the center of the room, facing Walker’s easy chair. He placed the chairs some distance apart, so he could look at Michelle — and see all of her — without being too conspicuous.

“So how did we give ourselves away?” Ryan asked as he and Michelle sat.

“At first I was just giving Kyle a hard time,” Walker said. “I rely on him a lot, but raising his voice with customers is not okay. I could hear him all the way down here.

“Plus for Kyle,” Walker continued, “everyone’s a fascist. He’s a smart guy, but a bit too passionate. He doesn’t realize that the word ‘fascist’ actually means something. It’s not just a word you throw at people you don’t like.”

Walker was ostensibly responding to Ryan’s question, but his focus was on Michelle. He was measuring his words against the look on her face, trying to read her reactions. But as far as Ryan could tell, she wasn’t reacting at all, just watching and listening. It was an almost preternatural attentiveness that Ryan had noticed before.

“Then suddenly,” Walker went on, shifting his focus to Ryan, “a few different things popped into my head all at once. One was the story I’d told you, about the guy who came in looking for a Rush Limbaugh book and how Kyle had flipped out. And then I realized that this girl at the counter was about your age, and that reminded me that you’d mentioned a new girl at school.”

Blood rushed to Ryan’s cheeks; he hoped it wasn’t too visible in the burgundy-hued basement. Sure, he and Michelle were spending a lot of their free time together, but he didn’t need her knowing that he’d talked with his parents about her.

Luckily Michelle was still focused on Walker.

“So why don’t you carry Bill O’Reilly?” she asked.

“It’s not for the reasons you’d think,” Walker insisted, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers interlaced. “Have you ever read Bill O’Reilly?”

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “My dad really is a fan. He has all his books.”

“Well tell your father,” Walker said, “that I don’t carry Maureen Dowd, Chris Matthews, Jon Stewart or Michael Moore either. All those guys, they’re just writing to appeal to their base. I’ve got 1,100 square feet and maybe 6,000 titles to work with. I don’t have room for books like that.”

As if reminded of something, Michelle’s focus switched suddenly from Walker to the basement.

“It’s too small,” she said.

“Sure, but I think I make the most of it–”

“No, the basement,” Michelle clarified, “It’s smaller than the store.”

“Good eye,” Walker said with a smile. “At some point before I moved in, my neighbor took over part of it. I didn’t notice it till after I’d signed the lease.”

While Michelle considered this, Walker turned to Ryan, and something in his expression shifted.

“What’s your mom up to?” he asked.

“The usual,” Ryan said. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m here,” Walker said, “because Saturday’s the busiest day of the week and Kyle can’t handle things on his own. Isn’t that obvious?”

Walker forced a laugh, and Ryan joined him. Michelle smiled politely.

“Well, I’d better go upstairs and make a show of it,” Walker said. “Thanks for the visit. It was nice meeting you, Michelle.”

“You, too,” she said.

Walker stood and motioned Michelle toward the stairs, and he and Ryan waited as she passed between them.

“What is it your father likes about O’Reilly?” Walker asked, as he and Ryan fell in behind her.

“Dunno,” Michelle said. “Maybe it’s his job.”

“Oh yeah?” Walker asked. “What’s he do?”

Michelle was at the top of the stairs, reaching out to open the office door.

“I could tell you–” she started to say.

“But you’d have to kill me?” Walker finished.

Michelle stopped, looked down at Walker and let a long moment pass. Standing just behind his father, Ryan watched as her lips parted and her tongue glided along the tips of her teeth, as it had on the day they’d met. It was a sign, Ryan now knew, that she was amused.

“Not me,” she said finally, in a matter-of-fact tone. “But he might.”