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The Autumn Grove Town Board meetings had a rhythm to them that was as predictable as a metronome. Fourteen minutes in, Mayor Carlo Gable would veer off-agenda to rhapsodize about the Tulip Festival. Twenty-three minutes in, the treasurer would drone about water treatment costs. And at exactly thirty-seven minutes, I could slip out the back and return to my library, where the only slides involved were the ones I strategically ignored in my inbox.

Tonight was running exactly on schedule.

I sat in my usual spot—third row center, paperback of Persuasion tucked in my canvas tote like a literary security blanket—and mentally composed my to-do list for closing. Reshelve the large-print mysteries. Find out if Mrs. Andrews had finally finished that brick of a fantasy novel. Maybe rearrange my “Books That Understand You Better Than Your Therapist” display before someone’s concerned relative filed a complaint.

The folding chairs were as unforgiving as ever. The usual suspects had gathered around me: the Hendersons from the hardware store, attending like it was a moral imperative; old Mr. Kowalski, already napping; and Lily Sage, doodling elaborate floral arrangements in her margins.

All perfectly, soothingly mundane.

“All right, folks, let’s move on to new business.” Mayor Gable’s voice carried that a tone of self-satisfaction that usually preceded grant funding announcements or mandatory volunteer initiatives.

I suppressed a yawn. New business rarely concerned the library. My budget was approved. My programs were—

“Now, I know we’re all aware that our beloved Autumn Grove Library is a treasure.” He paused for the murmur of agreement. “A cornerstone of our community. A sanctuary of learning.”

My spine straightened.

I knew a preamble when I heard one.

“But we also have to acknowledge that we’re living in a modern age.” Gable’s voice shifted into practiced concern.

“Our citizens have modern needs. Our institutions need to evolve.”

A cold thread of dread wound down my back. I reached into my tote and gripped my paperback.

“Which is why I’m pleased to introduce a new initiative to help bring our library into the twenty-first century.”

The mayor beamed like he was announcing the second coming.

“We’ve brought in an expert—a consultant who specializes in modernizing legacy institutions. Please join me in welcoming Mr. Evan Daniels.”

Legacy institutions.

As if the library were a fossil. A relic. Something that needed excavating and carbon-dating before it could be properly understood by modern humans.

The side door opened.

My head turned—along with every other head in the room—and there he was.

Younger than I’d expected. Early thirties, with dark hair styled in that effortlessly perfect way that definitely required three products and seventeen minutes. Button-down shirt, crisp white, sleeves rolled to his elbows in a gesture that screamed I’m important but approachable. A sleek smartwatch glinted on his wrist.

Of course he had a smartwatch.

When he smiled at the room, it was the kind of smile that had been workshopped. Warm but professional. Engaging but calibrated.

A consultant’s smile.

My fingers tightened on my book.

“Thank you, Mayor Gable.” His voice was smooth, with just enough vocal fry to sound relatable to people who considered podcasts a personality trait. “I’m excited to be here in Autumn Grove. What a charming town.”

Charming. Like we were a theme park.

He moved to the front of the room, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and began setting up a presentation. A projector descended from the ceiling with a mechanical whir.

The lights dimmed.

This was planned. Prepared. Which meant it had been in the works for weeks, maybe months.

And no one had told me.

“I want to start by acknowledging what you already know,” Evan said, clicking to his first slide. “Your library is special. It’s a gathering place, a resource, a vital part of your community identity.”

The slide showed a stock photo of a quaint library—all leather chairs and warm lighting. It looked nothing like my library, but apparently sentiment was universal enough for corporate presentations.

“But here’s the thing.”

Next slide: graphs, statistics, numbers I couldn’t quite read from my seat.

“Patron engagement is down thirty-seven percent nationally. Physical book circulation has declined. Younger demographics aren’t connecting with traditional library models.”

Traditional. As if tradition were a disease.

“What I do is help institutions like yours navigate the intersection of tradition and innovation.” His voice had taken on the practiced rhythm of a TED Talk.

“I look at the user experience from end to end, identify the pain points, and develop solutions that honor your history while optimizing for the future.”

Users. Not readers. Not patrons. Users, like they were logging into an app.

Another slide appeared: a before-and-after of another library. The “before” showed crowded shelves and worn furniture—character, I would have called it. The “after” looked like an Apple Store that had accidentally ordered books.

“My assessment will cover several key areas.” He ticked them off on his fingers, new slides appearing behind him like a corporate magic show. “Physical space utilization and traffic flow. Catalog systems and inventory management. Digital resource integration. Community programming optimization. And staffing efficiency.”

Staffing. Efficiency.

My jaw clenched. I forced myself to breathe.

“The goal isn’t to change what makes your library special—it’s to enhance it.” His smile was so earnest it could’ve sold time-shares.

“To make sure the Autumn Grove Library isn’t just surviving, but thriving. To create a space that serves all of your citizens, using data-driven insights to guide decision-making.”

Data-driven insights. For my library. For books that couldn’t be reduced to metrics and algorithms and engagement statistics.

The presentation crawled forward. Seven more slides of corporate jargon that reduced my life’s work to a series of problems requiring solutions. He talked about “customer journeys” and “engagement metrics.” He showed examples of “clean interfaces” and “intuitive wayfinding systems.” He used the phrase “low-hanging fruit” twice.

Mayor Gable nodded so enthusiastically he looked like a dashboard bobblehead. The Hendersons leaned forward, riveted. Even Mr. Kowalski was awake.

“In conclusion”—Evan advanced to his final slide, which showed diverse, attractive people smiling at tablets in what might have been a library or might have been a Microsoft commercial—“I see tremendous potential here. Your library has good bones. But right now, you’re offering a dusty user experience when you could be offering something transformative.”

Dusty.

The word hit me like a slap.

My library. My sanctuary. The place where I knew exactly which book Mrs. Andrews needed during her divorce, which graphic novels made sullen Tyler Morrison’s eyes light up, how to make lonely Mr. Kowalski feel seen by remembering he took his mysteries British and his coffee black.

Dusty.

The lights came up. Evan closed his laptop with a soft click and deployed that smile again.

“I’m happy to answer any questions.”

The Hendersons had questions. So many questions. They wanted to know about timelines and whether the new systems would be “user-friendly” for seniors. Evan answered with smooth confidence, sprinkling in phrases like “phased implementation” and “comprehensive training modules.”

Mayor Gable asked how soon they could start.

“As early as next week,” Evan said.

Next. Week.

I sat frozen, hand still wrapped around my paperback, as the ground shifted beneath me.

This was happening. Already happening. They’d hired him without consulting me. Without even telling me.

I was the head librarian. The only librarian, if you didn’t count the part-time staff. And they’d just—

“Ms. Cassidy?”

My head snapped up. Mayor Gable was looking at me expectantly, and I realized with a sick jolt that he’d asked me a question.

Everyone was staring. Including Evan Daniels, whose smile had shifted into something that looked almost sympathetic.

Which somehow made it worse.

“I’m sorry?” My voice came out steady. Professional. A small mercy.

“I was saying that Mr. Daniels will of course be working closely with you during the assessment. Your institutional knowledge will be invaluable.” He beamed. “Any initial questions for him?”

Questions. I had approximately one thousand questions, starting with, Who authorized this? and Why wasn’t I consulted? and How dare you call my life’s work dusty?

But this was a town board meeting. There were protocols. Decorum.

And I would not give them the satisfaction of watching me lose it.

I pushed my glasses up my nose—they hadn’t slipped, but the gesture bought me a second—and met Evan Daniels’s eyes across the room.

“I look forward to the collaboration,” I said, in the same tone I’d use to say I looked forward to periodontal surgery.

A few chuckles rippled through the audience. Evan’s smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. An acknowledgment that this was not, in fact, going to be simple.

Good.

“Wonderful!” Mayor Gable clapped his hands once, case closed.

“I’m sure you two will work together beautifully. Meeting adjourned, folks!”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bloomed. People gathered their things with the relieved energy of civic duty fulfilled.

I stayed in my seat, still clutching my book, and watched Evan collect his laptop, shake hands, accept congratulations like he’d just won something.

He probably thought he had.

The crowd thinned. I should leave. Walk out with my head high, go back to my library, process this in private.

Instead, I found myself standing. Moving down the aisle toward the front, where Evan was coiling his laptop charger with the kind of precision that suggested he labeled his cables.

He looked up as I approached. The smile returned, automatic as breathing.

“Ms. Cassidy.”

“Mr. Daniels.”

We faced each other across three feet of municipal carpet. Up close, I could see the details I’d missed from my seat—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt was pressed to within an inch of its life, the fact that his eyes were actually a rather remarkable shade of gray.

None of which mattered.

He extended his hand. “I really am looking forward to working with you.”

I looked at his hand. Clean, manicured nails. No calluses. The hand of someone who worked with keyboards, not with stubborn book spines or the ancient, temperamental date stamp that required exactly the right pressure or it would smudge.

I shook it. Briefly. Professionally.

“Penelope Cassidy. Head librarian.”

“I know. I’ve heard great things.” His handshake was firm but not aggressive. Perfectly calibrated.

“I’ve been looking at your programs. The ‘Blind Date with a Book’ event? Genius. Really creative community engagement.”

He’d researched me. Of course he had. Probably had a whole dossier.

“Thank you.”

“I was hoping we could set up a time to chat. Maybe tomorrow? I’d love to get your perspective before I start the formal assessment. Grab a coffee, talk through your vision for the library.”

Your vision. As if he cared. As if this were actually a collaboration and not a hostile takeover dressed up in optimization language.

Something hot and sharp lodged beneath my breastbone. Anger. Real anger, the kind that made me want to tell him exactly what he could do with his user experience.

But Mayor Gable was watching with poorly concealed delight. And over Evan’s shoulder, June Redfield was holding up her phone, clearly filming for the community Facebook page.

So instead, I smiled. The same smile I used for patrons who insisted the library should be open Sundays despite having no Sunday budget.

“Tomorrow won’t work. We have a full schedule. Perhaps you could email your availability for next week.”

A dismissal. Polite. Professional. Appropriate.

Evan’s smile flickered. Just for a second. A micro-expression that said he’d recognized the rebuff.

“Of course. I’ll send that over.” He took a small step back. “I’m staying at a rental just off Main Street, so I’m around for whatever works with your schedule.”

“How convenient.”

The words came out sharper than I’d intended. But Evan either didn’t notice or chose not to react. He just smiled again and turned toward the mayor.

I watched him work the room—shaking hands, accepting welcomes, fielding attention with a practiced ease. Someone who’d done this in a dozen other small towns with a dozen other legacy institutions.

I made it three steps toward the door before June Redfield intercepted.

“Penelope! Quick comment for the community page?” June’s phone was already recording, camera pointed at my face. “How are you feeling about the modernization project? Exciting, right?”

June meant well. She always meant well. Which made it very difficult to be annoyed with her, even when she was livestreaming my personal crisis to eight thousand neighbors.

“It’s certainly... unexpected,” I managed.

“He seems great! And so nice. That presentation was really impressive, don’t you think?”

“Mm.”

“Are you excited to work with him?”

I looked directly at the camera. Somewhere out there, people were watching. Forming opinions. Already typing comments with far too many emojis.

“I’m committed to ensuring that any changes serve our community’s actual needs. Not just theoretical improvements.”

June blinked. “So... yes?”

“We’ll see.” I summoned a pleasant expression. “Excuse me. I need to get back to the library.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I pivoted and headed for the door at just below fleeing speed.

The April evening hit me like a blessing. Cool, clear, with that clean smell that came after a rainstorm. The sun was setting, painting the sky peach and lavender, and Main Street—Happily Ever After Lane, I reminded myself with an internal eye-roll—stretched before me in all its postcard glory.

Three blocks to the library. Three blocks of brick sidewalks and historic buildings and small-town charm that people like Evan Daniels probably found quaint. Marketable. Good for before-and-after slides.

My flats slapped against the pavement as my mind raced.

They’d hired a consultant. To optimize my library. Without asking me.

Five years of increasing circulation, innovative programming, exceptional patron satisfaction—apparently none of that mattered in the face of national trends and user experiences and whatever corporate metrics Evan Daniels worshipped.

My library wasn’t dusty. It was lived-in. Warm and welcoming and yes, maybe the carpets were worn, but that was because people used them. Because the library was a place where people came to sit and read and think and be, not a sterile showroom designed for optimal traffic flow.

I loved the smell of old book glue. I loved how the afternoon light hit the reading nook. I loved my card catalog—my beautiful, enormous, gloriously analog card catalog that I still maintained by hand because there was something sacred about the physicality of it.

And now some consultant with a smartwatch and stock photos was going to tell me it was all wrong.

The library appeared ahead, brick facade glowing in the evening light. Built in 1912, a Carnegie library with high windows and a foundation stone that read Free to All.

I climbed the steps and unlocked the door.

The library exhaled around me. That perfect scent—part paper, part dust, part elderly heating system that clanked but never quite failed.

It smelled like home.

Marcia looked up from the circulation desk. “Hey! How was the meeting?”

I set my tote down with more force than necessary. “They’ve hired a consultant. To modernize the library.”

Marcia’s eyebrows climbed. “Modernize? Like... new computers?”

“Among other things. He’s going to do an assessment. Make recommendations.”

“Huh. Is that good?”

“I don’t know.” My voice came out flat. “I wasn’t consulted.”

“Oh.” Marcia’s expression shifted to sympathetic. “That’s mean.”

It was. Exactly that.

“I’m going to be in my office. Can you handle closing?”

“Sure. You okay?”

“Fine.” The lie tasted bitter. “Just need to think.”

My office was barely larger than a closet, tucked in the back corner. But it was mine. I closed the door, sank into my creaky chair, and stared at my wall.

My wall of postcards. Dozens of them. Thank-you notes for book recommendations that changed lives or just made bad weeks better.

Thank you for the books. They kept me company when I needed it most. —Mrs. Andrews

Still reading graphic novels. Still think you’re cool. —Tyler Morrison

This was my library. These connections. This inefficient, gloriously human mess of relationships and stories and quiet grace.

And Evan Daniels thought it was dusty.

My hands curled into fists.

I’d been polite tonight. Professional. I’d followed the rules, smiled for June’s camera.

But this wasn’t over.

If that consultant thought he was going to waltz into my library with his graphs and buzzwords and clean interfaces, if he thought he was going to reduce my life’s work to pain points that needed optimizing—

He had severely miscalculated.

This was my sanctuary. My home.

This was war.

Coming November 21st!

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