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resolute. It had been over a decade, but he knew where to go. He ignored groups of children with volumeless voices that marveled over the interactive machinery; he ignored the groups of older students sketching on digital pads and ignored the garish displays that begged him to pause in his journey to reflect on the many items of interest. The display case that held original manuscripts from a pre-digital age were only feet away and he wouldn’t allow himself to accept a yield sign of any sort. There was an overwhelming curiosity in him now that begged to be satisfied. No, it wasn’t even that simple. Holden felt as if he had some liquid answer lodged in his brain that wouldn’t drip from his ear no matter how hard he shook his head or how fiercely he pounded his temple with the butt of his palm. It unhinged him so quickly that it nourished a new need. Holden needed to know if he was willing to dig deep enough into his mind and risk sacrificing himself simply to get the answer out.
    He reached the display case.
    The display case was empty.
    Holden blinked in the stark whiteness of the room and slowed his pace. The case that had once held ten books from his grandfather’s generation was empty. A synthetic cloth, cut to the shape of the inner counter, added to protect the spines, still held an imprint from the weight of the delicate artifacts. They had been moved. And recently.
    The Catcher in the Rye was not one of the books at the museum; he knew that it wasn’t. Holden was hoping, in his desperation, to find some clue as to why the story had been edited or, at the very least, to find information on an establishment that had copies of books for study or view. But all he discovered was nothing. Nothing but glass and fabric and air in an echoey chamber of white walls and parquet floors. Holden turned in place. He twisted his tongue through his lips like a lizard. He had come to an abrupt end in his search and was unable to grasp his next steps. Then he noticed the expression painted on the face of the woman posted firmly in the corner of the room. She was a guard and had apparently found Holden’s overt distress amusing.
    “Something I can help you with, sir?” the guard asked with a curt smile. Her rude, Chicago twang actually comforted him.
    “Yeah, where are the books?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The books. The books from the empty case. The ones that you are no longer guarding.” His question seemed obvious. “Wherever they disappeared to, it must have just happened.”
    The guard released an exasperated breath, rolled her eyes and pulled her walkie-talkie up to her mouth, clicking the button with annoyance. “Jo, I’m in gallery two-oh-nine and I’ve got someone here asking about these books. You were working here this week. They were moved, right?”
    “Yeah, they were moved.”
    The woman looked at Holden as if that were enough of an answer to appease him. He laughed and kneaded his arms in a rolling gesture as if to say, And they were moved where?
    The guard clicked the walkie-talkie and asked, “Where were those moved to, Jo?”
    After ten seconds of dead air and staring back at one another, Jo, the woman whose nickname he could only assume was short for Joann or Josephine or Jolene, came back. “I wanna say it was that government preservation group, whatever the name is. I think they had to be moved because of all that terrorist stuff going on. Guy thought they might get stolen or something. I guess you can’t take chances with those Free Thinkers around.”
    The guard lowered her walkie-talkie, but Holden was already ambling away, rapt in thought. Before long, he found himself standing outside the museum near the bus stop beside a few other people. His mind was blank. In fact, he was almost angry. It didn’t make much sense, but he was angry at Marion. Things, up until yesterday, had been fine. This was, of course, a lie, but it seemed right because life had made sense. Sure it wasn’t great; in