There's a little free library on my street. A wooden box on a post, holds maybe ten books. Last month I left my favorite book in it — the copy with all my notes in the margins. 'This line got me.' 'Nobody recovers this fast.' 'I'd forgive him too.' Today it's back. Same coffee stain on page 41. But under every note of mine, someone wrote back in blue pen. Under 'I'd forgive him too' it says: 'You would? I've been arguing with you about this for a month.' I don't know this handwriting. I check the street. Empty.

I don't write anything. Not yet. I want to know who I'm talking to. I put the book back in the box, exactly how I found it. Then I set up on my porch with coffee and a clear view. Two joggers. A beagle. The mail carrier waves. 8:40 — someone in a blue jacket stops at the box. Takes out MY book. Flips straight to the margins. And frowns. Because I didn't write back.

I'm off the porch before I can think. Me: 'Any good?' They jump. Hold up the book like evidence. 'Sorry — is this yours? The notes. Are they yours?' Up close: my age. Nervous. A pen tucked behind their ear like they came ready to reply. Me: 'The black pen is me.' They stare. Then: 'You didn't write back.'

Me: 'I wanted to know who I was talking to first.' They look at the book, then at me. 'And now?' Me: 'Now I'm talking to you.' The beagle guy passes again and definitely slows down to listen. They flip the book open to page 63 and hold it out. 'I'm not letting you off the hook. I asked you a real question on this page. Read it.'