The book was checked out the following Thursday — Yetunde knew because the library's ancient system still printed a paper slip, and she had taken, without quite deciding to, the small habit of checking the return dates of that particular shelf.
When it came back, page 115 held a new note, in the same neat hand, this time addressed not to whoever but, cautiously, to the receipt person.
They went on like this for three more exchanges, never meeting, never signing real names, building a small and improbable friendship out of margins and a single unreliable bookmark.
Yetunde began to understand that she looked forward to Tuesdays now, not because of the rain, but because of what might be waiting on page 115. She did not examine this feeling too closely. Some things, she'd learned, only survive being looked at gently.