The Bookmobile – Part 1: Overdue

"It's overdue," said Jack.

"You've never borrowed anything," said Willa.

"Then it's very overdue."

She leaned out of the window of the bookmobile, squinting in the Montana sun. The converted bus sat on the dusty gravel road, its sides painted with a mountain scene, its shelves packed with paperbacks. She was thirty, a travelling librarian, in a faded denim shirt and a straw hat, with dust on her boots and a clipboard on her knee. The prairie rolled away behind the rancher, golden and enormous, under a high blue sky.

He was thirty-four, tall and lean, with a sunburnt neck, a battered Stetson and a slow lazy smile. He leaned on the fence with a hay-fork, looking at her with every appearance of innocent confusion.

"I've been flagging you down for six weeks," he said.

"I've noticed."

"I thought you'd stop."

"I thought you'd borrow something."

"I'm not a reader."

"Everyone's a reader. They just haven't found the right book."

"Then find me one."

She stepped down from the bus. In the long shade of the vehicle, she browsed the shelves with a finger, humming. He watched, hat in his hand. She chose a slim paperback with a cracked spine, a story about a man who rode a horse across the country. She handed it over.

"Try that. If you hate it, bring it back."

"I'll hate it."

"Then it won't take long."

He took the book as if it were a baby bird. She wrote his name on a card: Jack Hollis. It was the first card he'd ever owned.

The next Thursday, he was at the fence, book in hand, hat pushed back, with the expression of a man who had stayed up all night.

"Well?"

"I finished it," said Jack. "In one sitting."

"And?"

"I'd like another."

She laughed so hard she had to sit on the bus step.

"Can I ask you something?" said Willa.

"Yes."

"Why did you flag me down? Before you'd read anything?"

"Because you waved back," said Jack.

"Green?" said Willa, a road sign.

"Green," said Jack, with a slow smile. "Very green. What's next on the shelf?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Stop.