This was a memory I could have done without. But the Night had coughed it up for me anyway: my job at Bookshelves, Inc. It’s not that I didn’t like books. I loved them. But I hated my boss, Mr. Quail. I hated the way he snapped questions at me, then interrupted me when I was trying to answer – the way he manufactured busy work for me while everyone else in the store sat idle, the way he denigrated me when I dared to express an opinion, and the way he hadn’t given me a raise in two years. And I suppose I hated most of all the fact that I still worked there, despite everything. Dropping out of college hadn’t saved me from getting a crummy job. I still had to earn a living. My old life had caught up with me, even here. Several boxes towered over the work table, the latest delivery of sale books. The sale books were my special responsibility. They represented about a third of the stock of the entire store, and no way in hell would anyone else unpack them. I went over to see what had come in.
