by S. M. Hutchens
My years in the library contained many interesting experiences, but only one that was so bizarre, so surreal, that I still have a hard time myself believing it happened, the story of which I would blame no one for doubting. I shall, however, and I hope to some good purpose, proceed here to relate it and—* * *!—ah, there was a good sneeze in Háry János style, so you must believe me.
A young woman approached the desk, told me she was a high-school English teacher working on a master's degree, and needed to read a novel about war. Could I help her find one? . . .