the children’s library
by Marshall Moore
I keep checking the time. Carson and Hart were due back an hour ago. Although we aren’t as strict about scheduling as we used to be, time slots matter. There’s a rota. Hospitality have pinged me already. They have space in the stacks in the south wing. I knew they would. No, it’s the crew in Reception I’m worried about. If we have to charge a late fee, they might get yelled at. I abhor violence. These transactions should be pleasant—joyful, even.
Like any other library, we aim to be welcoming and sensible, even homey. To that end, we still call the front structure the Mansion. Rich people lived here four decades ago. It shows in the stately façade of red brick, the massive wooden door, the windows that stretch to the ceiling. Reception have a kiosk just inside the door, tucked away behind reinforced glass. It keeps out the weather and other bad elements. In the Great Room, as we like to call it, you’ll see sofas and low tables. We encourage reading. We develop young minds.
The annex at the rear of the Mansion and the sub-levels are newer. As you’d expect, they house multiple stories. They present a more institutional mien than I’d like, almost clinical. Over the years, there have been… initiatives, you could say. Pressures. Paint the walls in primary colors. Add some clowns, circus animals, dinosaurs, cars with eyes for headlights. I’ve resisted. Call it selfish—I’d rather not have to look at garish crap every day.
My earpiece beeps. I touch the button to listen: “They’re here, boss.”
I pause at the mirror before leaving my office. Straighten my tie, dust some fuzz off my jacket. Do I need to oversee a routine return such as this one? Of course I don’t. But this is the kind of library where we care about the little things. We care for the little things. I pitch in just like everyone else does.
Carson and Hart have grown in the six months since they were checked out. I try to recall the borrowers’ names—Hiroshi and Laura? No, it’s Lydia. We spoke the day they picked out the boys. Lydia had been so hopeful about their previous child, a six-year-old girl named Elene. She turned out to be shy. It was hard to connect. They returned her several weeks early. I was hoping this time would be better. Hiroshi and Lydia give the two boys warm smiles and hugs, exchange a look that balances sadness and relief, and hurry out the front door. In the past, they’d have been required to fill out a ream of forms and submit to an exit interview, but we handle those formalities online now. Glenn from Hospitality gestures for the boys to follow him for their medical checkup and debriefing. A bit subdued from the tranquilizers Lydia would have slipped into their breakfasts this morning, they follow in silence.
I remember getting my first library card. I’d like to forget how many years ago that was. In fact, I lose a few minutes thinking back. Forty-odd years, almost fifty. The children’s library in my hometown had floor-to-ceiling shelves in a warren of little rooms, and wheeled ladders on tracks. You had to ask a librarian to get books from the high shelves. The boys used to look up their skirts. Certain things never change. Today you can borrow e-books without leaving your desk. You can download them onto your tablet or phone. Most towns have tool libraries now, too. How many people really need chainsaws and plumbing snakes? Yes, time has marched on since I checked out those first Agatha Christie books. I have my own copies now. I don’t think they’ll be banned soon. Nor will this form of lending.
The afternoon passes in a welter of paperwork. Time gets away from me. Like any manager, I spend more time in front of a screen than I’d like. I see more spreadsheets than staff these days: nutrition, education, cremation. I sometimes worry I’m being neglectful. I should spend more time among the holdings. I’ll call it an audit. We’re overdue for one, anyway. Thus inspired, I take the lift down to see Carson and Hart before I go home for the evening. As expected, their tests have come back clean. They’ve been debriefed, given collars and new uniforms that will fit their larger bodies (how they’ve grown!), and fed in their shared room. Tomorrow they’ll be allowed to eat in the canteen with the others.
“Are you happy to be back?” I ask, smiling broadly.
This elicits no answer. I could administer a small electric shock to their necks but choose not to. Sometimes it just takes a little patience. After a moment, Carson—the older one—says, “Thrilled.” He’s almost fourteen. I consider this progress.
His younger brother tells me their borrowers had a nice house and let them play games all night on weekends. But no soft drinks or potato chips, no unhealthy stuff.
“We don’t serve them here either,” I point out.
“Whatever,” Carson says.
Again, I consider a shock. The collars also have retractable spikes. It’s so nice to have options. Instead, I stand up to leave.
As I reach for the door, Hart speaks up: “We’re basically property, aren’t we? Doesn’t that make us—?”
I stop him before he can utter the word. It’s a question I’ve heard from newer acquisitions, and shut down, many times before.
“No,” I reply. “This is a library. That means you’re always going to be free. For as long as you live.”
“For as long as we live,” Carson says in a mocking tone of voice.
“That’s right, for as long as you live,” I affirm.
On my way out, I lock the door and turn out the light.
Photo of Marshall Moore
BIO: Marshall Moore is an American author, publisher, and academic based in Cornwall, England. He is the author of a number of books, the most recent of which is an essay collection titled Sunset House (Rebel Satori Press, 2024). He holds a PhD in creative writing from Aberystwyth University. For more information or to catch up with him online, please visit linktr.ee/marshallsmoore.