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Leena had been told to save the rare books
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first. The neighborhood reading room was
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moving into a renovated building, and she
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was helping Ms. Chen decide what belonged
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in the display cabinet. Its glass held
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eleven shelf inches, and the key hung on a
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nail behind the desk, so every book chosen
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pushed another back onto the open shelves
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where anyone could take it home. Most
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choices were obvious: a hand-bound atlas,
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a first edition with brittle pages, a book
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signed by a poet who had once lived
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nearby. Then Ms. Chen placed an ordinary
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field guide to orchard trees on the cart
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marked KEEP.
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Its green cover was faded, and the spine
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had been repaired with cloth tape. A date
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stamp on the flyleaf ran from 1961 to
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1974, thirty-one entries in violet ink,
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and the last of them sat just above a
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price of ninety cents written in the
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corner beneath the mark of the shop that
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had sold it. Inside, pencil crowded the
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margins. Some notes corrected the author's
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descriptions—*Not this early on our
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hill*—while others simply asked questions.
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In a second hand, using blue ink, answers
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appeared between them. Oddly, several blue
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comments began halfway through a sentence,
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as if their writer had known what the
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pencil would say before reaching the end.
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"Wouldn't a clean copy be better for the
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new room?" Leena asked.
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Ms. Chen turned a page by its corner.
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"Better for what?"
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Leena knew the answer expected of a
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volunteer: for reading. Instead, she said,
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"For showing that we take care of books."
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Ms. Chen smiled without agreeing. She
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asked Leena to dust the guide, but not to
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erase anything. As Leena worked, the notes
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began to feel less like damage. A penciled
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complaint about an illustration was
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followed by a blue sketch correcting it.
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Beside a paragraph on grafting, pencil
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asked, Would you risk the whole branch?
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Blue replied, *Only if you let me choose
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the tree.* The exchange was too playful
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for a lesson and too patient for an
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argument.
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On moving day, Ms. Chen did not put the
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guide behind glass. She left it open on a
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low table. Near closing time, two older
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women entered together. One walked
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directly to the book, while the other
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paused at the doorway and looked around as
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if measuring the room against a remembered
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one.
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The first woman touched a penciled line.
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"You gave me almost no space here," she
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said.
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"You always asked the long questions," the
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other answered. From her bag she took a
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blue pen, though Ms. Chen gently shook her
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head before it reached the page.
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Leena looked again at the notes that began
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in the middle of sentences. She had
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imagined one reader returning later to
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respond to another. Now she pictured two
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students bent over the same small table,
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one writing before the other had finished.
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The guide was still ordinary as a guide.
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As a record of reading together, there was
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no cleaner copy.