Mr. Burson, the owner and proprietor of Riverbank Books, had always reminded Dill of a shambling, humanoid badger. He wore small, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose, and for all but the hottest months of summer, cardigans covered in cat hair, buttoned across his rotund belly, usually over a Merle Haggard or Waylon Jennings concert T-shirt. Dill always liked Mr. Burson. As a lifelong bachelor who loved cats and books, he was the subject of plenty of whispering and judgment himself, so he wasn’t about to visit it on Dill.
Dill, Lydia, and Travis walked in about a half hour before closing time (or the closest approximation thereto—Mr. Burson stayed open as much or as little as he saw fit), scattering three or four of the shop cats before them. Mr. Burson glanced up from his stool behind the counter, where he was reading some pulp sci-fi novel from the 1960s, absentmindedly petting yet another cat. Several guitars hung on the wall behind the counter. A forest composed of stacks of used books loomed around him, the usual spicy-vanilla scent of pipe tobacco and old paperbacks wafting in the air. Mr. Burson’s jowly face lit up when he saw Travis, one of his most loyal customers.
“Young master Bohannon!” he said in his wheezy voice, adjusting his glasses. “To what mysterious and fantastical lands may I offer you passage today?”
Travis leaned on the glass counter that housed Mr. Burson’s tiny museum of early editions of Faulkner, O’Connor, Welty, and McCarthy. “Actually, we’re here to find a present for Dill’s mom for her birthday, but while I’m here, could I place a preorder for Deathstorm?”
Riverbank Books’s stock was largely used. Mr. Burson traveled around in his battered and rusty 1980s Toyota pickup covered with nerd-joke (MY OTHER CAR IS THE MILLENNIUM FALCON), pro-reading (I’D RATHER BE READING), and vaguely political (COEXIST) bumper stickers, snapping up boxes of books at thrift shops and estate and library sales. But he carried a small stock of new books and took special orders for people who didn’t use Amazon and/or preferred to support their local bookstore.
“Ah, yes, Deathstorm. The new opus from Mr. G. M. Pennington. Aren’t you lucky I don’t sell books by weight?” He chuckled, got out a tattered ledger volume, and scribbled a note to himself. “So, Travis, what do we think will become of House Northbrook in the final battle against the dark forces of House Allastair and their Accursed? Will the Queen of the Autumnlands intervene with her Raven Host? Will Rand Allastair’s bastard throw a wrench in the Allastairs’ plans by leading the Horsemen of the East in a gambit to capture the Gold Throne?”
Travis’s eyes glistened. He didn’t often get to talk about Bloodfall with real-life, flesh-and-blood human beings. He opened his mouth to answer.
Lydia interrupted them by making a time-out sign. “Hey-o, whoa, hang on, fair knights of the realm. Before thou dorkest out, we humble serfs beg thy assistance in finding a book for the woman who doesn’t like anything.”
“I mean, it’s not that she doesn’t like anything. It just has to be Christian. Really Christian,” Dill said.
“Like the Bible barely makes the cut because Christ is only in the second half,” Lydia said.
Mr. Burson snapped his fingers and dismounted from his stool with an involuntary grunt, letting his cat leap to the ground. He waddled from behind the counter, waving for them to follow. “This way, young friends.” He led them past floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, haphazardly organized with piles of books on the floor in front of them.
They reached the section labeled CHRISTIAN/INSPIRATIONAL. He got down on one knee with much effort, grunting and puffing, the seams of his pants creaking like ship riggings. He pulled out a book called The Templar Device—a new book he’d shelved with the used books, his customary practice.
He adjusted his glasses and handed it to Dill. “This is a Christian adventure novel that was quite popular a few years ago. It’s about an archeologist who unearths the tomb of one of the Knights Templar, to find part of a prophecy about the Antichrist inscribed on his shield. He’s launched into a world of international intrigue and deceit as he tries to put together the other pieces of the prophecy. But”—he cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered—“spoiler alert: the Antichrist is in all of us if we don’t accept Jesus.”
Lydia made a zipping motion over her mouth, then locked it with a pretend key.
“I’m not sure the idea of adventure is even Christian,” Dill said as he thumbed through the book. “The true believer has faith that everything will be fine and they’ll be saved and go to heaven, which kind of makes adventure less of an adventure. But I’ll risk it.”
They stayed and browsed for a bit. Travis and Mr. Burson swapped theories about Deathstorm. Dill watched Lydia as she moved along the shelves, gently dragging her hand behind her along the books, touching each one, as if she were reading the titles with her fingers.
Lydia found a used copy of Patti Smith’s Just Kids, her favorite book. “I pretend I’m buying it and getting to read it for the first time. Besides, I try to support Riverbank. It’s basically the only semisophis…” She trailed off as Travis and Mr. Burson began acting out a pretend sword fight. She sighed. “Anyway, I try to support Riverbank.”
They bought their books and stepped out into the late-August dusk. September was around the corner, but summer lingered in full force.
“Let’s go watch some trains,” Dill said.
Travis shrugged. “I’m in.”
“Lydia?”
“I need to fill out some scholarship applications and get ready for my interview with Laydee.”
“You’re interviewing Laydee, the singer?” Dill asked.
“Yep.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. She’s pretty much our age and her songs are all over the radio.”
“Yeah. Anyway. Trains.” Lydia checked the time on her phone. “I can go for a little bit. If we don’t see a train soon, I gotta run.”
“High five.”
“When is the last time you and I shared a high five that wasn’t completely awkward?”
There were several spots in Forrestville that were prime for train watching, but Dill favored Bertram Park. It was a little ways up from the bridge with the Column. The railroad tracks bisected the park, perhaps not the optimal design. Fortunately, the neglected park wasn’t much of an attraction to kids. It had a forlorn baseball diamond and some oxidized playground equipment. A few spring-mounted teeter-totter animals that resembled sun-faded dollar-store rip-offs of Disney characters sprouted up through the sand.
They sat on a picnic table near enough to the train tracks that when they heard a train coming, they could get close.
Lydia checked her phone. “Watching trains. Dill’s version of YouTube. You know this is a very weird thing to do, yes?”
“Said the girl currently wearing clothing from five different decades.”
“Touché.”
“Should we ask the guy wearing a dragon necklace if he thinks it’s weird?” Dill asked.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” Travis said. “Trains and big machines are cool.”
“Why are you so into this?” Lydia asked.
Dill pondered. “I’m trying to think of the least weird way to put it.”
“Uh-oh,” Lydia said.