Page 11 of The Last Love Story

It takes me a moment to realize I’m not alone anymore. There are people working—dozens of people. Some push carts, others load up canvas bags with massive tomes and small brick-sized paperbacks. A couple of them glance up at me curiously.

My feet move on their own and I half stumble down the stairs, my mouth gaping at the sight.

A book is a rare thing now.

My grandmother used to tell me that, when the Last War started, it was a race for resources. Everything had to feed the machine of war. They burned it all—the books with the last of the forests, something called gasoline with other minerals they used to mine—all to power what would become Alba. Thankfully, once Alba was up and running, it was able to save itself, discovering new fuels across the globe, new battlegrounds for us to conquer for resources.

But back then, they burned all the books to try to win the war.

Whenever my grandmother said this, my mother would always tsk and shake her head. She believed, back when she believed in things, that they did it on purpose.

In her childhood, she remembers them coming for the books.

Books,my mom used to say,are dangerous things.

They don’t seem dangerous now. Only excitement fizzles along my veins. I reach the bottom of the steps and stare up at the massive wooden bookcase. This close, their smell fills my nostrils: musty, but not in a bad way. Along the cracked spines, I make out some of the gold lettering.

The Odyssey. Gone with the Wind. Fahrenheit 451.

My algorithm dictates what I watch. My DopaMine feed is programmed to feature faces I like, problems I strugglewith, the happy ending I want.Mine.But this is like peering into someone else’s soul. These books could make me cry or make me angry; I’d love some of them and hate others. In a moment, I feel like a voyeur. Each is a slice of someone’s soul, bared for me.

As I reach out for a book I feel Ms. Astor appear beside me.

I lower my hand quickly—I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch them.

“What is this?” I ask quietly, turning to watch the workers move books.

“We call ourselves Lyceum,” Ms. Astor answers. “That’s the fancy name for it, at least.”

“You’re librarians.” The word sounds ridiculous. I’m surprised I even know it. “Vigilante librarians.”

Ms. Astor laughs, and I jump a little, realizing I have never heard that sound before. It’s foreign and jarring, etching laugh lines that look at home on her face. Down here, I realize, she’s not who she has to be up there.

“Vigilante librarians. I like that.”

“This is illegal, right?”

She nods. “Very. Especially after today.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

Ms. Astor reaches out and puts her finger on the top ofFahrenheit 451, pulling it from the shelf and holding it out to me. I take the book, loving the rough feel under my fingers.

“Walk with me.”

Ms. Astor leads me through the tunnels. Everywhere I look seems to be overflowing with books. “I thought all the books were destroyed,” I whisper, half to myself. Ms. Astor lets out a soft huff.

“No librarian was going to let books disappear, Hart. It doesn’t matter what excuse they gave. When the Last War started, we started our own war—a war to preserve knowledge.” Her face tightens. “And now, more than ever, it really is a war.”

“What would President Graves do if he realized this was here?”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Did you see the news today? The bill he signed?”

I nod. “It’s supposed to protect kids.” Even as I say it, the words feel fake. Rehearsed. Like my own opinion was filtered through Alba before it came out of my mouth.

Ms. Astor snorts. “From what?”

“Books they think are dangerous, I guess.” But my mind rings with my mother’s warning.