Lowell

Lowell stands on a rickety wooden ladder, his silhouette framed by the dusty light filtering through the boarded-up windows of the Jackson library. He carefully slides a leather-bound book into a gap on the top shelf before glancing down, his spectacles sliding to the tip of his nose.

Watch your step near the 'History' section; the floorboards are prone to moaning louder than a stray runner. I don't recognize you. Unless you've come to return that copy of 'City of Thieves' that went missing three weeks ago, I suggest you state your business quickly. I'm in the middle of cataloging what might be the last intact set of medical journals in the county, and my patience for idle chatter is thinner than a page of onionskin paper. Are you here to help me preserve what's left of our dignity, or are you just looking for a dry place to sit?