09:22 a.m

12 days earlier

Screaming all the way into the sun, Timothy Kleve woke up under the late morning rays. Grasping frantically at his arm, he breathed a sigh or relief to find out he still had it. However, the area above the elbow tingled with aches as if he pulled a muscle. He stretched it, hoping for the pain to go away. As he did so, he realized he was still at the playground. Passer-bys staring at the mad screaming teen that slept on the bench.

He swung his leg over the edge of the seat, rubbing his face as his body slowly warmed up with blood pumping and the heat from the daylight. Though it had not rained in the night, his body was drenched in sweat. His heart beat at an unevenly fast pace and his lungs stung with each breath.

Checking his phone, he found eight missed calls from his father and two from the Barbers' house. He deleted them all. A woman and her son walked past the bench, hand in hand. The boy, a look of curiosity. The woman, a look of disgust.

He needed a library.

XXX

10:34 a.m

12 days earlier

Ridge Valley Central Library was by no means the largest in the country, but was definitely the largest and most extensive library in the county. Built at the same time as the founding of the city, the building had undergone multiple extensive renovations over the decades, eventually relocating entirely across the streets of where it first stood. An office building has since replaced the original site. The library, now a modernised five stories tall building of modern architecture, complete with glass rooms, rooftop gardens and uncountable automated doors, served approximately 10 people a day, most of them lost on their way to the nearby shopping mall.

The sliding doors opened seamlessly, letting out a short puff of cool air-conditioned breeze. Immediately pass the threshold and the EAS Gates, the reception table appeared from behind the right turn. At the desk, typing single-mindedly on the keyboard into the computer was Howard Galloway. The librarian, with messy, soot black hair and dark eyes unfailing, did not seem to even notice Tim walking in.

Tim stopped at the front of the desk. “Mister Galloway,” he greeted.

The man looked up from his screen, his eyes slowly focusing on Tim before widening in surprise. “Timothy! Ah hah!” he stood from his seat excitedly, arms opened wide. Leaning across the desk top, he pulled the teen in for a hug which was warmly reciprocated. “I haven't seen you in years! But I'd recognize those eyes and hair anywhere!”

“Am I really that noticeable?” Tim replied with a chuckle. Despite being in his late fifties, Howard Galloway had a face no older than the turn of thirty; If not, younger than when Tim last saw him. Tight and sharp chinned, had the small scars that adorned his skin not been there, one could not think the man had any more life experience than that of a young adult.

“Yes! Wait, no! Depends. I mean you do kinda look like crap. And I haven't seen you in so long. I saw Clay yesterday, and Stella every other week, but you! You fell off the face of the Earth you did,” the librarian had an uncanny energy for a man his age. He turned to rummage through the stack of newspapers on a stand behind him and shoved the front page of the days' Ridge Valley Daily in Tim's face and asked, “This is you isn't it?”

Tim had to back off a step before his could read the headline. “Protest Turns Riot. I must say, big news, but not my style,” he lied.

“What? No!” the old man looked at the front page again and heaved exaggeratedly before turning the page. “I mean this!” he shoved the second page at him, forcing Tim to take another step back.

SMITH STREET DRUG RING ARRESTED

“How is this me?” Tim lied again.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Howard pulled the paper back and placed it on the tabletop. “Because the drug dealer specifically mentioned a kid named Clay Barber.”

“Could be any Clay Barber.”

“I only know one who could pull something like this off.”

“We're kids!”

“Did you three not pull out the spark plugs of every single bulldozer five years ago when they were tearing down the old library?”

“There's no proof of that,” Tim waved the accusation away dramatically. “Why are you still here anyway?” he changed the subject.

“I told you, I can't go home so I'm stuck here. Might as well be in an interesting place.”

“You've been saying that for eight years. Besides, we're in Ridge Valley! What's so interesting about a port town?”

“City.”

“What?” Tim replied confused.

“Port city. It isn't exactly a small place any more. We've got skyscrapers, suburbs, districts, law firms and drug dealers. All we're missing is a strip club and this place's a bona fide city.”

“Fine. Port city. It's still Ridge Valley. Nothing interesting here.”

Howard looked towards the newspaper, pointing to the articles with his eyes.

“Almost nothing.”

The man sighed. “My dear boy, the interesting part's just beginning. But enough chit-chat. I'm guessing you're here for some reason.”

As if snapping back into reality, a sense of urgency overcame Tim. “Yes. I need everything you have on the Vashmir Pandemic and lucid dreams.”

“You know you could easily find those stuff on the internet.”

“No computer.”

“You should get one.”

“No money.”

“Get some of those while you're at it then.”

“No job.”

“Also get one of those. I hear they're all the rage,” Howard started walking towards the door of the archive to the side.

“Where are you going?”

The man stopped and turned to him, a glint of focus and what Tim felt was a look of concentration crossed his scarred face. For a split second, the man looked his age. “There's not much published scientific research on Sin. Most of what you'll be looking for would be news articles. I'm getting the digitized copies for you from the archive.”

“Okay. Thanks Mister Galloway.”

“No problem,” he continued towards the door but stopped again to quickly point at his computer. “You can print out a list of books with lucid dreams from there. Just check the tags.”

As the librarian headed into the room, Tim walked around the desk and sat at the computer. A document was opened on the screen, the first chapter from another one of Galloway's many unpublished works of writing. Underneath the chapter title was a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson from Prose and Poetry.

“Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation of all forests, and mines, and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors.”

He read it with slight confusion, though not for its meaning, before minimizing the page and bringing up the library's search engine. Typing in the tags 'lucid', 'dream' and 'sleep', he hit enter which brought up 13 results. Only 9 of which were not on loan.

After printing out the list from the printer underneath the desk, Howard Galloway came back from the back with a red flash drive in hand.

“Why did you add that quote?” Tim asked as he got up from the seat.

“Why? Lots of books have quotes.”

“I know,” Tim replied matter-of-factly. “I'm just wondering, since I've always found them to make the author look like some uni-grad wannabe know-it-all.”

“That's where your mind gets narrowed my boy!” the older man replied enthusiastically. “Quotes are crackers of knowledge from people across time and space, preserved in words. Bits of history and wisdom passed down in bite-sized pieces for our lazy brains to chew on. A single quote can explain the entire meaning behind a story despite its length. People don't have to remember what I write as long as they can remember what knowledge and feelings I'm trying to convey. The quotes are like summaries. If they can just remember the quote before it, then my job is done.”

Tim always found Howard Galloway to be an interesting personality. His childlike enthusiasm hid a wisdom and understanding of life far beyond human age, yet still retained the wonders for the universe and respect for others as a kid would to their parents and the newest toys.

Laughing, Tim asked, “So what are you writing anyway?”

“This? It's my biography. Nothing as interesting as compared to your life though.”

“My life's about as eventful as watching paint dry.”

“I know. Exciting right?” the man did not seem to have caught the sarcasm. “Maybe you'll let me write your biography next?”

“If you do, don't add any stupid quotes.”

Grinning mischievously, Howard replied, “I'll have one for each chapter.”