Barnaby was a bookmobile — rainbow stripes, shelves packed tight, and every Tuesday he rolled to Fernwood Park where six children waited on their blanket with their best reading faces on. He loved Tuesdays more than anything.
But tonight was Monday, and a small yellow note sat on his dashboard. Feeling poorly — rest up, Barnaby. We'll go Wednesday. Miss Okafor's handwriting, a little wobbly. Barnaby's headlights blinked. Wednesday was too late. His shelves were almost empty. The returned books — the ones he needed — were still sitting in three drop-boxes around town. Without them, the children would arrive tomorrow and find nothing new. Shelf-arm ready. Route memorized. I can do this. Whirr. Click. Out he rolled.
The town at dusk smelled like cut grass and warm pavement. Barnaby's rainbow stripes caught the orange glow of the streetlights — red, then yellow, then green rippling down his sides as he rumbled slowly through the quiet. Rumble, rumble, roll. First stop: Fernwood Park. The fountain drop-box stood near the big oak. Barnaby extended his hydraulic shelf-arm — a long, clever metal arm with padded fingers — and reached inside. It came back holding eight books, bundled neatly with a rubber band. Someone had left a pine cone on top. He kept the pine cone. It seemed polite.
Rumble, rumble, roll. Second stop: the school gate. The return slot was cut into a stone pillar, very narrow, and the lane beside it was extremely tight. Barnaby exhaled a long, slow breath of steam — phhhhhhh — and edged in, inch by inch, until his shelf-arm could just — just — reach the slot. Eleven books. One had a bookmark still inside: a drawing of a dog wearing a hat. He reversed carefully, his side mirror missing the pillar by the width of a postage stamp, and trundled on.
Rumble, rumble, roll. Third stop: Mr. Petrov's front porch. Something had gone wrong on Mr. Petrov's porch. The wind had knocked over a whole tower of terracotta flowerpots — crash, scatter, crumble — and they were heaped right across the return box like a small orange mountain. Barnaby's shelf-arm picked them off one by one. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Dirt sprinkled down onto his bumper. He finally cleared the lid — and stopped. Two small eyes blinked up at him from inside the return box. A tortoise. A very round, very unbothered tortoise, sitting on top of six picture books like a tiny king on a throne. His name, Barnaby would later learn, was Fig. Fig did not move. Fig had opinions about moving. Barnaby thought carefully. His shelf-arm reached into his own shelves, selected a book — The Very Busy Garden — and lowered it, open to a page of enormous illustrated beetles, right in front of Fig's nose. Fig's head came forward. One step. Two steps. Three steps out of the box, neck stretched toward the beetles, completely entranced. Barnaby's shelf-arm slipped in behind him and lifted the six books out, quick and gentle. Fig didn't even notice. He was busy with the beetles. Barnaby left The Very Busy Garden propped open on the porch step. It seemed only fair.
Rumble, rumble, roll — and then no more rolling. Barnaby turned back into the library garage, eased into his bay, and cut his engine. His shelves were full now, every slot packed, spines lined up straight and waiting. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Tick. Tick. Tick. His headlights dimmed. His door clicked shut. Outside, somewhere, a moth bumped against the garage window once, then flew away. Barnaby was still.
