Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

The bookstore is bursting with heat and light. Mat’s lamps are daisy-chained together, all plugged into the one power outlet behind the front desk. I’m pretty sure it’s going to blow a fuse, or maybe a whole street-level transformer. Booty’s neon sign might be at risk tonight.

Mat is up on one of Penumbra’s ladders. He’s using it as a makeshift dolly, with Neel pushing him slowly across the span of the store. Mat holds the Nikon steady in front of his face and fires off a shot for each of Neel’s long, even strides. The camera triggers the lights, which are set up in all the corners and behind the front desk, and they all go pop pop with every shot.

“You know,” Neel says, “we could use these shots to make a 3-D model.” He looks over at me. “I mean, another one. Yours was good.”

“No, I get it,” I say. I’m at the front desk, making a checklist of all the details we need to capture: the tall letters on the windows and their rough, crenelated edges, worn away by time. The bell and its clapper and the curling iron bracket that holds it in place. “Mine looked like Galaga.”

“We can make it interactive,” Neel says. “First-person view, totally photorealistic and explorable. You could choose the time of day. We can make the shelves cast shadows.”

“No,” Mat groans from the ladder. “Those 3-D models suck. I want to make a miniature store with miniature books.”

“And a miniature Clay?” Neel asks.

“Sure, maybe a little LEGO dude,” Mat says. He hauls himself up higher on the ladder and Neel starts pushing him back across the store. The lights go pop pop, leaving red spots in my eyes. Neel is ticking off the advantages of 3-D models as he pushes the ladder: they’re more detailed, more immersive, you can make infinite copies. Mat is groaning. Pop pop.

In all the bright noise, I almost miss the ring.

It’s just a tickle in my ear, but yes: somewhere in the bookstore, a phone is ringing. I cut through the shelves parallel to the photo shoot, with the lights still going pop pop, and emerge into the tiny break room. The sound is coming from Penumbra’s study. I push through the door marked PRIVATE and hop up the steps.

The pop pop of the lights is softer up here, and the ring ring from the phone (next to the old modem) is loud and insistent, produced by some powerful old-fashioned mechanical noisemaker. It keeps ringing, and it occurs to me that my usual strategy for strange phone calls—wait them out—might not work here.

Ring ring.

These days, the phone only carries bad news. It’s all “your student loan is past due” and “your uncle Chris is in the hospital.” If it’s anything fun or exciting, like an invitation to a party or a secret project in the works, it will come through the internet.

Ring ring.

Okay, well, maybe it’s an inquisitive neighbor calling to ask what the commotion is all about—all the flashing lights. Maybe it’s North Face over at Booty’s checking to make sure everything’s okay. That’s sweet. I pick up the phone and announce, with relish: “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore.”

“You must stop him,” a voice says, without introduction or preamble.

“Um, I think you have the wrong number.” It’s not North Face.

“I definitely do not have the wrong number. I know you. You’re the boy—you’re the clerk.”

I recognize the voice now. The quiet power. The crisp syllables. It’s Corvina.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“I’m Clay.” But then: “You probably want to talk to Penumbra directly. You should call back in the morning…”

“No,” Corvina says matter-of-factly. “Penumbra’s not the one who stole our most precious treasure.” He knows. Of course he knows. How? Another one of his crows, I suppose. Word must have gotten out here in San Francisco.

“Well, it’s really not technically stealing, I don’t think,” I say, looking down at my shoes as if he’s here in the room with me, “because, I mean, it’s probably in the public domain…” I trail off. This is not going to get me anywhere.

“Clay,” Corvina says, smooth and dark, “you must stop him.”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe in your … religion,” I say. I would probably not be able to say this to his face. I’m clutching the black curve of the phone tight to my cheek. “So I don’t think it matters if we scan an old book. Or if we don’t. I don’t think it’s, like, of any cosmic importance whatsoever. I’m just helping my boss—my friend.”

“You’re doing exactly the opposite,” Corvina says quietly.

I don’t have any response to that.

“I know you don’t believe what we believe,” he says. “Of course you don’t. But you don’t need faith to realize that Ajax Penumbra is on the razor’s edge.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I’ve known him longer than you have, Clay—far longer. So let me tell you about him. He’s always been a dreamer, a great optimist. I understand why you’re drawn to him. All of you in California—I used to live there. I know what it’s like.”

Right. The young man in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. He’s smiling at me across the room, giving me a big thumbs-up.