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 take it home and grab a pen. Under their 'You would?' I write: 'Forgiving isn't the same as forgetting. Page 200 proves it.' I answer every single reply. Little arguments. Little agreements. On the last blank page I write: 'Your move.' Next morning I put the book back in the box. By noon it's gone.

A week goes by. Then two. The box fills with cookbooks and a phone manual. No blue pen. Fine. It was a stranger. It was nothing. Week three, my book is back — with a pressed flower flattened at chapter 12 and one page corner folded down. The folded page has a line underlined: 'I kept meaning to come back.' Below it, in blue: 'Sorry. Family stuff. Did you miss me?'

Under 'Did you miss me?' I write the true thing instead of the cool thing: 'I checked the box every day. Twice on Tuesdays.' Then, before I can stop myself: 'Is the family stuff okay?' Book goes in the box. Gone by evening. It's back in TWO days. Blue pen, smaller than usual: 'Mom's better. You're the first person who asked. — M' A letter. I finally have a letter.

Under 'You're the first person who asked,' I write my name. My real one. And: 'The box is too slow. Tuesday, 6, the bakery on the corner?' The book disappears that night. Tuesday, 5:50, I'm outside the bakery rereading chapter 12 like it's homework. 'Black pen?' says a voice. M is holding the book. The pressed flower is taped to the cover now, like a badge. 'Maya,' she says. 'Hi.' The bakery closed at seven. We were still talking on its steps at nine.