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Oh! Is that the Fonz?! Here?! SIGNING BOOKS?!

And just as I’m about to veer off to follow the old Happy Days icon into the bathroom for an autograph, I’m funneled into an even smaller hallway and pop out at the top of an expansive exhibit room. Banners cover booths as far as the eye can see. Books spill from every inch of available space. Stacks lie on tables. Beside tables. Beneath tables. It’s only 9:00 a.m., and already the crowds swarm.

Everything as far as the eye can see is the librarian’s dream.

The booklover’s dream.

The dream.

And sure enough, I can see hundreds of librarians racing around like ants from my perch at the top of the stairs overlooking it all. It’s that old TV show Super Toy Run, where one lucky kid races through a toy store in five minutes, throwing anything he can into a shopping cart. Everything free. Except instead of toys, it’s something much, much better.

Books.

Hundreds and hundreds of crisp advance copies of books, free for the taking.

Beside a large HarperCollins banner I spot a smaller one, the sparrow logo next to the neat words PENNINGTON PUBLISHING. Lyla is bouncing from one end of the booth to the other in a pink pantsuit and three-inch heels, trying to stop the woman in the corner who’s currently trying to sneak all the copies of one book title into her bag. Giselle is sitting off to one side, sipping coffee as she scrolls her phone. And William Pennington has his hands on his hips while he stands beside Oswald, looking around impatiently.

Shoot.

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

I dart down three steps, one hand holding on to the railing. A woman in a T-shirt that says WILL BRAKE FOR BOOKS takes up the stairway with a rolling suitcase by her side.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to squeeze by. “I’ve just got to—”

“We’re all here for the same thing,” the woman says gruffly, pushing out her rolling suitcase and blocking me from the potential foot of space between her and the man on the other side.

“No, you don’t understand,” I begin but then spot, over the woman’s shoulder, the booklet detailing the schedule of events. Hour-by-hour events are noted over the course of the next three days on the left-hand side, but it’s the headline covering the right-hand side that grabs my attention. “Green? Green’s got a new one coming out?”

“Only two hundred copies too!” the man beside her says, to which she eyes him, then me, suspiciously. She folds the booklet up.

Two hundred copies? I can’t help thinking. Are they signed? But no. I mentally shake myself. I need to stay focused. I need to remember why I’m here.

I glance toward my tent again and instantly regret it. Oswald’s hands are now gripping the back of the table, and he’s inching his way toward the exit. As for my new supervisor? Well, maybe that face is always the face he makes when he’s doing business. Maybe that murderous-looking frown as his eyes dart around, one hand gripped on Oswald, is just business as usual.

Maybe.

I check my watch. Nine eleven.

I want to wail, Move it, people! but then spot the situation: an elderly woman getting settled into a wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. Knowing this place, she probably took one look around, spotted from a distance that sporting young man in the neon staff T-shirt now helping her into the wheelchair, and realized he could whip her around three times faster than the competition.

I force a calm breath.

Isn’t that nice that all those people are helping her into her chair? I force myself to think. Isn’t that just so nice that we are all here . . . at this event . . . all together . . . right before I get fired! Get out of the way, everyone, or I’m going to scream!

I grab my phone from my bag and whip out a text to Lyla: Stuck at stairs in a pileup. Can you tell the boss?

Most people wouldn’t hear their phones in the chaos of the room. Most staff, for that matter, wouldn’t even have their phones on their person while they danced around during such an event. But not Lyla. She could hear the single ding of a text across a stadium during the Superbowl.

I watch as she pulls the phone from her pocket, reads the text, and hustles over to William. Good ol’ Lyla.

A moment later he turns his head toward the stairs, and after several moments of scanning, his eyes land on me.

No.

I’ve made it worse.

I shrink under his volcanic glare, wishing in that moment for an escape. Any. Escape. Backward. Forward. I don’t even have to go to this event. After all, I don’t really need this job, do I? Really? I could just squat in my sister’s spare bedroom forever, wallowing in self-loathing while Mom and Dad tell Olivia, “Your sister just can’t cut it in the real world like you, honey. But remember, you do for family.”