sound, a pain growing as the pressure rose in her chest. She shook

her head and blinked, then scooted her chair far back, away from

the vile words on the computer screen.

From: Lovers of Literature

To: Brenda Kato, Chapel Bay Library

Re: Author Events/Inappropriate Books

Date: November 18, 2022

Dear Ms. Kato:

As the person in charge of the Meet the

Author events for the Chapel Bay Library, it is

your responsibility to make certain that

authors and books featured are of a HIGH

MORAL CALIBER. In these uncertain and

morally ambiguous times, our families—

especially the children—are in great need of

protection from corrupt, harmful, Un-American

sentiments. We have noticed that several of

your recently featured selections veer toward

what we can only describe as dangerous. The

threat to our way of life is serious. America is

and always has been a nation of believers. But

many among us are hell-bent on taking the

truth out of our schools and libraries.

We, the Lovers of Literature, are here to guide

you toward a more moderate and sensible set

of offerings to the public. Below, you will find

a list of objectionable titles, authors, and

topics.

The list was extensive. Topics included LGBTQ themes

and authors, tomes concerning Jewish, Muslim, and atheist

people, books written by and about Black and Brown people in

America and—here it was—Asian American stories, including

those about Japanese incarceration. Stories about people such as

her own mother, Toshi. Put into an internment camp in this state,

California. On the so-called “left coast.”

She felt a full-blown panic attack approaching.

Stop.

Breathe.

Counting to twenty as she slowly inhaled, then exhaled, she

pulled herself back from the abyss.

                                                ***

This brightly lit Tuesday in November had started like

most other days in the idyllic town of Chapel Bay. Brenda had

eaten breakfast—oatmeal with raisins and one slice of wheat toast

—then strolled downhill from her blue bungalow to the town’s

library. Her street was quiet, especially before nine a.m., and she’d

felt a calmness settle into her bones as she walked.

Entering the library, she’d removed her sunglasses. As her eyes

adjusted to the muted indoor lighting, she’d gazed across the

expanse of grey marble floor toward a round oak table just to the

left of the circulation desk. The table displayed new acquisitions,

behind which stood a light brown three-panel display board. The

words, “It’s Autumn: Time to Fall for a New Book” blazed across

the board in bright orange script.

As Brenda watched, a mother and her elementary-aged son

inspected an LGBTQ-themed chapter book. The boy’s dark eyes

sparkled; he clutched the volume to his chest. Brenda’s heart

swelled with pride, and she wiggled the fingers of her left hand in

a little wave as the two walked toward the circulation desk. She

had waited for this moment, hoped for it, since taking the posi‐

tion of library events and acquisitions coordinator in Chapel Bay.

That was three years ago. It felt good to see that the diversity ball

was rolling, that her hard work was finally paying off.

Still feeling the afterglow, Brenda had walked the short

distance down the hallway to her office. Her Nikes squeaked on

the recently polished floor, and she’d made a mental note to ask

the custodian to go a little lighter with the wax next time.

Opening the door, she glanced at the cluttered but cozy work‐

space. File folders of research material and partially read books sat

on chairs and atop file cabinets, yet the small Turkish rug in the

center of the room brought warmth and charm to the relative

chaos. Green, round-framed reading glasses planted on her nose,

she’d sat down in her swivel desk chair to prepare for the Meet the

Author event taking place in two weeks. In short order, she had a

ton of details to nail down. At a minimum, emails needed to be

sent to hopeful attendees, flyers picked up from the printer and

posted, and catering decisions made. Would the usual coffee and

cookies suffice, or should she spruce things up with cucumber

sandwiches? Would enough volunteers arrive to set up, serve, and

clean up?

At 53, Brenda had done her fair share of grunt work. As much

as she enjoyed micromanaging, she’d leave last-minute details to

the volunteer coordinator. Brenda was the show runner. She

would need to be in full babysitting mode on the big night,

ensuring the speaker’s tie was straight, his water glass full, and that

he’d be at the podium promptly at seven p.m., ready to speak. A

sudden bout of stage fright had overtaken last month’s speaker,

and the one before had a coughing fit in the middle of her talk.

Postponing the complexities of planning, Brenda had taken a

swig of water from her NPR flask and moved on to the less taxing

job of reading emails. Her inbox held the usual array of clutter.

Then she’d discovered the email that wiped away her feelings of

self-satisfaction, sending her into a dark and lonely place.

The email ended with a threat:

Be warned that attempts to glorify these

‘woke’ authors and their books will result in

protests and possible other actions.

Possible other actions? Like what? Never mind that the last

sentence was not grammatically correct.

Thoughts about a recent news article flooded her mind.

What did it say, again? Brenda took a sip of water, and the gist of

the article came back to her. Several community members in

Southern California had protested the local library’s LGBTQ

display during Pride Month. They defaced the display, checked

out every book related to LGBTQ people, and never returned

them.

Shit!

Shaking with anger, Brenda closed the email and thought

about deleting it. She paused, hand hovering above the trash can

symbol. This needs investigating. She forwarded it to Justin, the

head librarian, with a request that he ask the IT department to do

forensic research, hoping to learn the origins of the hate mail.

After some deep breathing and a walk around the block, Brenda

actually got some work done. But her heart continued its rapid

beating.

Hours later, she snapped her laptop shut and stretched her

neck.

How is it already after four p.m.? Her neck and back popped,

reminding her it was high time to go for her run. As she rose from

her chair, pulling her whole body to a vertical position, April, the

volunteer coordinator, called out.

“Hey there, Brenda! I got your note about volunteers. I’ll call

the five folks who’ve offered to arrive early on Friday for setup. I

still need to nail down my cleanup crew.”

“Okay, great, thanks. I couldn’t do this job without you!”

“Well, looks like you’re heading out for the day, so talk later?”

“Okay, see ya tomorrow,” Brenda said as she put first one arm

and then the other into her wool sweater.

Brenda rose and strolled out of the library. Walking uphill, she

passed Chapel Bay’s new tea shop and bed-and-breakfast, gables

and turrets wearing a new coat of paint. The irony of the town’s

ambience never failed to bring a smile. The ‘good old days’ in this

coastal tourist town, midway between San Francisco and San Luis

Obispo, seemed more real than Brenda’s memories of growing up

in Sacramento forty years ago. A vibrant, upscale version of the

nineteenth century, sanitized for one’s protection. When storms

took out the electricity and Wi-Fi, tourists fled quaint Chapel Bay

and sought twenty-first century conveniences inland.

As she rounded the corner, the moist air hit her face and

seeped into her lungs. Picking up her pace a bit, Brenda couldn’t

wait to get back to her cottage and put on her leggings, running

top, and shoes. She needed to get going. Fog could roll in at any

time.

As she opened the front door, Brenda was already planning

her run. The marathon was twenty-six days away, and next

Sunday’s half marathon would be a kind of tune-up. Today, a

tempo run—nothing hard. A moderate seven miler would work

fine. Two chilled water bottles nestled into her running belt, she

headed out the door for her daily dose of freedom. Cap donned,

she stopped to select the run mode on her Garmin watch and

began her warm-up mile. Two neighbors waved from their front

yards, and she nodded, but kept moving with her goal in mind.

Today’s run felt especially liberating. The day’s tension melted

away as muscles warmed and expanded. Thoughts about the

hateful email receded. At her turnaround point just beyond the

wharf, Brenda stopped for a long drink. She wasn’t looking for

perfection. Wear and tear were par for the course. Sore knees,

plantar fasciitis, the list went on. Brenda’s body carried the scars

and stars of the spills and thrills she had taken over the many miles

she’d covered. Now, here she was. Middle age was behind her and

old age was still up around the bend. May as well make the most

of this time, as it wouldn’t last forever.

It was easy to speed up on the return trip, as there were rela‐

tively few pedestrians on the path today. Such a nice change, as

the warmer months brought big crowds to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Other than this weekend’s half marathon, November was rela‐

tively quiet by the bay.

Only one more mile to go. Brenda looked down at her

running watch to check her speed. At that exact moment, a dog

appeared directly in her path. What the hell!

“Hey, watch out!” shouted Brenda.

On the other end of the lab’s leash was an older guy, tall and

gaunt, staring off into space, not even looking at his two dogs. Yes,

two! Luckily, the other one was far enough off the path to avoid

what would have been a truly bad tangle.

The old guy whipped his head around and pulled the

wandering pooch out of her way. Why are some people so oblivious

when out with their dogs?

The man muttered something—maybe an apology—but

she’d already gone up the path. Heart pumping, Brenda rounded

the final corner. A dark sedan approached her from behind,

lingering for a minute before speeding past her. Endorphins from

the run weren’t powerful enough to counteract the chill that

crept up Brenda’s spine. The smell of exhaust made her gag, and

for a moment she was afraid she might puke. Heart pounding, she

looked around. Who was that? Why were they following me?

Unfortunately, she’d been unable to get a clear view of the driver.

All she could see was the profile of a male wearing a red ball cap.

Was that the person who’d sent the creepy email?

Ugh.

Pausing at the front door of her house, Brenda felt a rush of

lightheadedness. She placed her hands on her thighs and lowered

her head until the feeling passed. The table lamp in the front

room cast a warm glow through the slight mist. She imagined her

piano inside the house and had a quick twinge of guilt for

neglecting her practicing of late.

As she slipped the key into the lock, Brenda had a quick "ash‐

back to a particular evening in 2010, twelve years earlier. She was a

new runner then, in a new relationship. She couldn’t help but

wish Cynthia was waiting on the other side of the door now, just

as she had been that evening in their San Francisco apartment. She

wondered if Cynthia even thought about her anymore. I should

call her. She always listened when I was scared. But will she answer?

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