Arriving at the library, I make a beeline for an open computer in the corner, check public databases, and make sure I'm still dead.

Yeah. According to the US government, I died ten years ago in the fire that killed my parents.

File under: Things the US government probably needs to rethink. 

An old man behind me coughs pointedly, and I log off quickly, muttering a quick, "Sorry, sir." Evidently mistaking my politeness for rudeness, he flips me the bird and flops onto my now vacated chair, sighing loudly.

Well. That will be the last time I try this whole "being kind" thing, thank you very much. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.

I head for the world travel section. I love the idea of traveling. I'm going to see the whole world one day, when I get back on my feet. Maybe it's the way I grew up, constantly trapped in Fiona's little hellhole of a house, but I can't stand the idea of staying in Brooklyn for the rest of my life, or even New York.

Damn. There's another person in my section. There's never  anyone in world travel, that's one of the reasons I love it. I can avoid the most remote of human interaction. Whatever, Jamie. Just go about your business and ignore him.

Oh shit, we've made accidental eye contact. Oh, God, he's coming this way.

"Hi," he says, flashing me one of the widest smiles I have ever seen in my entire life. "I'm Oliver," he adds, and sticks out a hand.

"Hi," I respond, and shake it. Hell if I'm giving him my name. That's how people get their organs harvested, you know. Talking with excessively friendly strangers who strike up conversation in the library. 

I size him up, purely out of curiosity. Could  I take him if he attempted to harvest my organs? He doesn't look like much. He's short for a guy, maybe a few inches shy of six feet, and I'd guess he's in his early twenties. Curly blond hair, blue eyes. Your poster child for a good Christian boy.

But then again, those are the ones who always shock people by murdering their entire family.

"So, you're a Brock McGovern fan, too?" He gestures at the book I'm holding, Brock McGovern's new memoir.

Yes, I am, and if you'd please leave so I could cut the little tracker out of his new book...

Brock McGovern is this treasure hunter. He spent his youth exploring Mayan ruins, the weird lost headquarters of secret cults, anything that would get him some treasure. He did that until his daughter died, a few years back. Now he writes books on his theories regarding different myths. He's kind of my idol.

"Uh, yeah, he's pretty cool," I say, hoping that awkward teenageriness will drive him away. No such luck.

"What did you think of his El Dorado expedition in '09?" Oliver is intense all of the sudden, eyes narrowed, as if my thoughts on the subject are going to shape his opinion of me as a person.

"It was... mildly intriguing?" And just like that, he's back to smiling. Evidently that was the right answer. The smile drops off his face as he looks over my head. His expression is the kind you immediately follow with a curse, but nothing comes. I heard Oliver curse precisely once, much later, and the situation made what happened next look like a walk in the park.

"What?" I say, following his gaze. My heart stops.

There's a shooter in the library.

                                                                     --------------------------------------------------

As we watch, the shooter heads immediately for us. 

"Give me your hat," I hiss to Oliver.

"What?"

"Your hat, imbecile, I need your hat." He gives it to me, looking almost disappointed, and I pull it low over my eyes just as the gunman reaches us. He's wearing a black ski mask, so I can't even profile him as he wraps an arm around my neck.

When we reach the center of the room, the gunman does me a huge favor, taking the gun away from my temple, and fires a few shots through the glass skylight. "Listen up, all of you!" Our gunman, it seems, is a gunwoman. "I'm going to need-" 

What she needed from a library, exactly, we'll never know, because at that exact moment, I thrust the elbow that she unwisely left free straight into her solar plexus, and she doubles over, gasping for breath. I box her ears for good measure, and she yells. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver give a little lurch, but he stays put. A chop to the wrist and she drops the gun, which I scoop, leaving the shooter in a crumpled heap on the floor. 

When I turn, I see that a runaway criminal's worst nightmare has been realized: every single person in the library is staring at me.

I swear and pull the cap lower, bolting for the door.