The Meadow 73 “Where’s my tooth?” I demanded. Brigid gave me an empty stare before wiping at her nose, smearing the blood across her cheek. “Did you eat my tooth, buttface?” But she would never say what happened. Shelia keeps running into the break room to give updates on the screaming woman. I can vaguely hear the yelling from where I sit, but I don’t have to go out there again for 36 more minutes and I’m glad of it. I shovel pretzels into my mouth and continue studying the blank space where the little girl’s tooth used to be. Sheila returns, her voice quiet. “She’s asking for you.” There are only two guys who work at Alhambra Library and when they’re both off, I often draw the short stick as the tallest woman. I turn. “Did Katherine say—” “The nut bu—.” Shelia reconsiders. “She’s asking for you by name.” A charge surges through my body and the hair on my arms prickles. I glance at the dilapidated Aztec-print couch in the corner, thinking how good it would feel to just rest there for a minute, but instead, I head out front. She’s a paper lantern of a woman. Her hair is knotted and greasy, her pale lips chapped. A sleeveless lime green dress cleaves to her just above her knees. Her limbs are wiry and she has on a purple beanie pulled low, her eyes barely peeking out. She waves her arms in the air, shouting unintelligible words, which shoot up into the domed ceiling over the front desk, echoing through the whole building. I stop several feet behind her. “Brigid,” I say. She whirls and glares at me. “Well, here she is. It took you long enough. They were telling me you weren’t here, but I knew you were.” My body tenses. “Really? Because my car isn’t. You know anything about that?”
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