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.