Inside it smells like dust, paper, and coffee that has been sitting on the burner since dawn. Every wall is shelves, floor to ceiling, crammed double-deep with spines and stacked paperbacks. A tin ceiling, ten feet up, painted over so many times it has no pattern left. The floorboards sag. The whole place seems to lean slightly toward the front windows.

Behind the counter stands a stocky man in his late sixties, gray stubble, reading glasses pushed up in his hair, a Fine & Rare badge on his corduroy vest, turning a paperback over and over in his hands. His name, per the brass nameplate, is Sal Pace. He is not looking at the book. He has been looking at the same paragraph for some time.