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Armani—too sophisticated to trust at that point. Today he wore a gray suit with a red striped tie. He stood at the counter with Bradley, who did not look too happy.
    Bradley’s big for fourteen—he’d gotten his growth spurt early, a gentle blond boy with a smiling face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bradley unhappy; but when life is so very simple as it is for Bradley, I suppose it’s more difficult to be sad.
    “Hello, Jordan.” Davis greeted me with his usual cool formality. He’s one of my oldest friends, but he never addresses me by my nickname.
    “Hi, Davis. Hey there, Bradley.”
    Bradley, for some reason shy, shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Hi, Jordy,” he finally said.
    “Jordan, this is a little embarrassing. I found this under Bradley’s bed.” Davis reached behind Bradley’s back and produced a thin children’s book:
Where the Wild Things Are
by Maurice Sendak. It’s a classic. Most boys Bradley’s age are hiding a different kind of wild-thing literature beneath their beds.
    “Bradley neglected to return this book when we returned several others a few weeks back,” Davis said, using what sounded to me like his courtroom voice.
    “I like it—cool pictures,” Bradley said by way of defense. Nervously, he dragged a hand across the back of his mouth and along a freckled cheek, leaving a wet smear. Bradley salivates more when he’s tense, I’ve noticed.
    Admiring a book was a good defense with Judge Poteet. “That’s okay, Bradley. I love books, too. But other people might want to read it, too, and we only have one copy.” I kept my voice real kind. I have a reputation for being sharp-tongued (not sure how I earned that) but I’m genuinely fond of Bradley. I opened the book and peeked at thedue date. Whoops, twenty weeks ago. This one’d slipped through the cracks. Bradley gave me a cautious, toothy smile. Davis looked pained. Breaking rules was not ever on his daily agenda.
    “Say you’re sorry to Jordan, son, for hoarding the book,” he instructed.
    “Sorry, Jordy,” Bradley whispered, staring at his feet. I take back what I said before; he could and did look sad.
    “Bradley’s going to pay the fine out of his chores money,” Davis announced, Bradley hung his head in fur-flier shame.
    I did a quick calculation. Usually we notify someone of an overdue book three times, then charge them the fine, the replacement cost of the book, and a five-buck extra processing fee. That’d come to over thirty dollars for this particular transgression. But we hadn’t notified the Foradorys; Itasca probably forgot to file the card right. I couldn’t entirely blame the problem on Bradley. He’d kept the book because he loved it, and we’d let him. The book was being returned in perfectly good shape. How many pleasures in life did this kid have?
    “It’s a quarter, Bradley,” I said, using my patented authoritative voice.
    Bradley began digging around in his pockets. Davis frowned; he pointed at a sign some idiot-in-charge (who shall go unnamed) had left hanging behind the counter.
    “That says ten cents a day, Jordan.”
    “That applies to adult literature,” I said smoothly. “We’re currently running an amnesty program on overdue picture books.” Note I was careful not to say children’s books in front of Bradley. I’m sure he must have some pride.
    Davis wasn’t buying. “Now, Jordan—”
    I wasn’t about to brook argument. “Mr. Foradory, I am the director of the Mirabeau Public Library and do believe I know our current overdue rates.” I said this with all the gravity it was worth. I was glad Candace wasn’t here to see me in my nobler moment; I’d never hear the end of it. Bradley carefully picked a quarter out of a palmful ofchange, held it up for my inspection, and when I nodded, he placed it in my open hand.
    “Thank you, sir,” I said.
    “I’m sorry, Jordy. I won’t do it again,” Bradley offered. I knew he was right; I’d just decided what to