The human brain isn't designed to categorize books by the Dewey Decimal System. It's like trying to teach a cat calculus - theoretically possible, but realistically, your cat's just going to knock the textbook off the table and take a nap. Which is exactly what I want to do right now.

  I've been shelving picture books in the children's section for what feels like seventeen consecutive days, though the clock on the wall insists it's only been two hours. The worst part is that kids are monsters who don't understand alphabetical order. Why is "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" shoved between two Berenstain Bears books? Why is "Green Eggs and Ham" crammed spine-down under the reading nook? And why, for the love of all things holy, is everything sticky?

  I slide another book into its proper place and stretch, feeling the pull across my still-healing ribs. The bruising has faded to a sickly yellow-green, but the deep tissue damage lingers. Between my nightly patrol routes and the absurd quantity of push-ups I've been doing before bed, my body feels like one giant, walking muscle cramp. My ribs are still tender and healing, and my ankle aches from where Captain Devil squeezed real hard, but... on the scale of disruptive injuries I've received? Not very high. Pretty modest.

  "Sam!" A small voice interrupts my internal complaining.

  I look down to find Tyler, a second-grader from my neighborhood, staring up at me with wide eyes.

  "Hey, Tyler," I say, crouching down to his level. "Looking for dragons again?"

  He nods enthusiastically. "Mom says I can get five books today! Are you the library lady now?"

  "Just volunteering," I clarify, despite knowing he won't understand the distinction between punishment and career choice. "Dragon books are in 398.2, remember?"

  "My dad says your dad shot someone!" he announces with the horrifying directness only children possess. "He was talking about it with my mom. He said 'oh that's the neighbor, isn't it?'" he puts on, doing his biggest, best deep voice while I try not to gag. I will not pretend there is not the tiniest fragment of this that isn't a little funny (consecutive negatives? Whatever). But also, what the fuck? "Is your dad okay? Did he go to jail?"

  Either way, my stomach drops through the floor. I should've expected this, but somehow I'd convinced myself that second-graders wouldn't be discussing vigilante confrontations and public shootings over breakfast.

  "No, he's not in jail," I say, keeping my voice steady. "He was protecting someone from a bad guy. But in a way that only adults who are really, really responsible get to do."

  "Like superheroes?" Tyler asks, eyes wide.

  "Sort of," I hedge, trying to figure out how to escape the conversation. My palms and armpits feel distinctly damp. Not a fan of this conversation!

  "My dad says people shouldn't have guns," Tyler continues, apparently determined to relay his father's entire political platform. "He says only police should have guns."

  "It's complicated," I say, desperately searching for an age-appropriate way to end this conversation. "Hey, did you know there's a new dragon book with holographic scales? It came in yesterday."

  His eyes light up, the gun control debate instantly forgotten. "Holographic? Like, shiny?"

  "Super shiny," I confirm. "Changes colors when you move it. It's on the new books shelf over there. Wanna go check them out?"

  Tyler shakes his head up and down with a rapidity that's a little worrying. "Some dragons have four legs but some only have two and wings! Those are wyverns actually, not real dragons."

  "Super interesting," I say, standing back up and flicking my finger out to guide the small human in the correct direction. "The dragon books are that way, past the fish tank. Can't miss 'em! Super shiny."

  I exhale slowly, my heart still pounding. It's not that I'm ashamed of Dad - he literally saved my life - but having "Gun Dad's daughter" become my new identity is almost as bad as being recognized as Bloodhound. Almost.

  I glance at the clock. Still three hours left in my shift. My body aches, my brain is melting from book-sorting, and I just narrowly avoided an in-depth discussion of firearms legislation with a seven-year-old. Perfect.

  Time for a strategic retreat.

  I make my way to the circulation desk where Mom is helping an elderly woman locate a large-print mystery novel. When Mom catches my eye, I subtly point to my watch and mouth "break time?" She gives an almost imperceptible head shake and points back to the children's section.

  Denied.

  Instead of returning immediately, I linger near the desk, pretending to organize the stack of library card applications while Mom finishes with her patron. As the woman toddles away with her book, Director Hayes approaches from the administrative offices, looking like she's aged ten years since this morning. I do put a couple things up on the shelves. Just so I don't feel bad about malingering.

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  "Rachel, we need to discuss the Morrison materials," Hayes says, her voice tight with stress. "The state historical preservation grant won't process without digital copies, and we've had two extensions already. If we don't submit something by the end of August, we lose the funding entirely."

  Mom sighs, removing her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I know, but everyone's already overextended. The company we hired went bankrupt halfway through the project, and the scanning equipment requires specialized training. And we need all hands on deck in the front for the school year starting. Getting flooded with students."

  "What about hiring a temp?" Hayes suggests.

  "With what budget?" Mom counters. "We're already operating on fumes until the next fiscal year."

  My ears perk up. Some sort of project. Specialized training. Away from the front? I mean, it's not for sure, but it sure sounds like it's something that requires not being in the front. By deduction, of course. My personal version of heaven right now.

  "I could help with the digitization," I offer, stepping forward from my not-at-all-obvious eavesdropping position.

  Both women turn to look at me, Hayes with surprise and Mom with that special brand of maternal suspicion that makes me feel like I'm eight years old again, trying to explain why the kitchen is covered in corn starch, not flour, as she had assumed, and to please be proud of my science project.

  "You've been eavesdropping," Mom observes, not quite accusatory but definitely not pleased.

  "Observing," I correct, borrowing her own terminology. "A useful skill you've encouraged."

  Director Hayes looks between us, clearly sensing the mother-daughter tension but choosing to focus on the practical matter at hand. "Does she have the necessary technical skills?"

  "I'm good with computers," I say quickly, before Mom can answer for me. Not as good as Jordan, of course, but probably better than... my Dad, maybe? "And I'm familiar with, what's it called. Metadata? I've had computer classes. We even did, like, half a marking period on archiving and how files work."

  This is only a slight exaggeration. We spent exactly one day on digital archiving, but I did get an A on the assignment.

  Mom studies me with that penetrating librarian gaze that can probably detect overdue books from fifty paces. "It's tedious, detailed work. Hours of scanning fragile materials, creating file names, adding metadata tags."

  "More interesting than alphabetizing board books for the fifteenth time this week," I reply, then add for Hayes' benefit, "And it's quiet work, right? In the back room? Away from..." I gesture vaguely toward the children's area, where a toddler is currently having a nuclear meltdown over returning a dinosaur book. It's not that the shrill shriek bothers me, and more that it's activating some sort of protective drive in me that I am not comfortable feeling. Not right now, at least. But also, yes, it is very loud and high pitched.

  Hayes looks thoughtful. "The Morrison Collection is valuable historical material. It would need to be handled with extreme care."

  "She is my daughter," Mom says, which I'm sure to Hayes sounds like a ringing endorsement. "I could train her properly."

  I try not to look too eager, which is difficult because right now I'd rather spend hours in a quiet back room scanning dusty papers than another minute shelving sticky picture books while dodging conversations with toddlers. Or dodging conversations with old people. Or dodging conversations in general. It's so much easier to be snarky to bad guys than it is to be earnest with real people. Why is that?

  "The alternative is losing the grant entirely," Hayes points out. "And the materials remain inaccessible, which defeats Dr. Morrison's entire purpose in donating them."

  Mom sighs again, a sound I've become intimately familiar with since starting my library sentence. A different kind of sigh than the one she does at home. "Fine. I'll show her the process tomorrow morning. But Sam," she fixes me with her serious librarian look, "this isn't just busy work. These materials are irreplaceable."

  "I understand," I say, trying to convey appropriate gravitas while internally doing cartwheels of joy. "I'll be careful."

  "Good," Hayes says, clearly relieved to have one problem potentially solved. "I'll adjust the volunteer schedule. Rachel, when you have a moment, we need to discuss the parent coalition transportation logistics for Harrisburg."

  As Hayes walks away, I turn to Mom, unable to completely suppress my smile. "So... no more children's section?"

  "Don't push it," she warns, but there's a hint of amusement in her voice. "Finish your shift today, and tomorrow we'll start on the Morrison Collection."

  "What exactly is the Morrison Collection?" I ask, suddenly realizing I've committed to a project I know nothing about.

  "Historical materials related to powered individuals in Philadelphia," Mom explains, slipping back into professional mode. "Dr. Oliver Morrison was a history professor who started collecting newspaper clippings, photographs, and published materials about superhumans back in the early 80s, right after the Genesis Births. When he retired, he donated everything to South Branch."

  "Why this library specifically?"

  "It was his local branch. He believed historical materials should be accessible to everyone, not just locked away in university archives." There's a hint of pride in Mom's voice that catches me by surprise. "He continued adding to the collection until his death three years ago."

  "So it's just... old newspaper clippings about superheroes?" I try to hide my disappointment. I was hoping for something a little more exciting than yellowing newsprint.

  "It's a comprehensive documentation of how powered individuals have shaped Philadelphia over four decades," Mom corrects, her tone sharpening. "It includes out-of-print encyclopedias, discontinued superhero magazines, historical photographs, and first-hand accounts. It's the most complete collection of its kind outside of a university setting."

  "Sounds... dusty," I observe.

  Mom gives me a look that suggests I'm testing her patience. "If you'd rather go back to the children's section..."

  "No!" I say quickly. "Dusty is good. I love dust. Big fan of dust and archival materials. Huge."

  "Uh-huh," Mom says, clearly not buying my sudden enthusiasm for historical preservation. "Finish reshelving the returns, and I'll show you the collection after closing. You'll need to understand what you're working with before you start scanning."

  "Deal," I agree, already feeling lighter at the prospect of escaping the children's section.

  As I head back to my cart of returns, the tracker around my wrist catches on my sleeve, and I have to work it for a second or two just to get it off. I adjust it absently, wondering if this new project might be more than just an escape from shelving duties. If the Morrison Collection really does contain comprehensive documentation about powered individuals in Philadelphia...

  Maybe volunteering at the library won't be a total loss?