The next book that comes in has a cover. Most books do. There’s a girl on the front. Her hair is long and shiny, red.

I scan it back into circulation. Beep.

I run a hand over my peach-fuzzy head, shorn and heavily tattooed underneath.

I think of my step father, dragging me across the asphalt of our driveway by my hair.

The book after that has a star on the cover. A black background, a shining white star.

I scan it back into circulation. Beep.

I think of my hardened heart and closed-off mind. I wish I could’ve been happier, but that’s not how I was raised.

I wasn’t raised; I was left to myself. One lonely star.

Someone comes to the counter. I don’t know him. He looks happy. A little boy is down beside him, clinging to his jeans.

“How’s it going?”

Normal formalities that seemed mundane and unnecessary. I shrugged and took the three picture books the little boy picked out. He smiled up at me, showing a dark gap where his two front teeth should have been.

“Hi!” He giggled. “I like your hair.”

I scanned the book. Beep.

Out of circulation.

He’s losing circulation now. Somehow. Someway. Not exactly sure. My mind is blank but full all at once.

I think of my own father, a missing piece of my life that made the puzzle incomplete.

His eyes rolled back and shut. I didn’t have to shut them.

I think of my step father, six feet under.

I took off my name badge, “Andrea.” I set it on the counter.

I left, like my family left me. Like I forced them to leave. Like I forced him to leave.

It was nothing new, but newly frightening all the same.

I loved it, and I hated it.

It was me.