You’re just a scrub he says. I say I don’t know what I’m doing here and then he says that none of us do. But to have someone shooting straight at you? I mean, straight at you. Like he wants to kill you. But then they all do. For the books. The stacks of books that we were told to keep. You know, as soon as they started taking them away. We were told to hold on to as many as we could. Hide them and they would become valuable. My sister says that people have always gotta know. It’s the same as eating, sleeping and messing around. She kept hers in a post office box. But then they beat her until she gave them the key and the number. Bastards. I’ve only got a handful. A handful seems to be enough to get people shooting at you. I have a paperback with a sexy cover, some Popular Science magazines and a couple of original hardcovers. I keep the others in this backpack, but the hardcovers I keep in different places on my body. There is a Steinbeck strapped to my thigh right here, a biography of Jim Morrison taped to my back. And I also have a book of Emily Dickinson poems wedged right here (his crotch). It keeps the rutters away. I have to keep moving. I never get to stop. Catch a club to the brain if you hang around one place too long. Most of the time I just go to the place I just was and back again. And try not get shot on the way. It seems silly when you can’t even read. But we have to do what we can to stay smart. Smart is all you have these days.