She needed something to read. Her eyes darted from one end of the bookshelf to the other, then up and down; dragged her fingers across the torn spines of books read and re-read. What to choose, what to choose? Hundreds of books right there for the taking. She put her finger on an Updike; changed her mind. There’s always Hamlet—the good ole standby. Stepped back and stuffed her hands down into her back pockets. There: The foxed pages and bold cover-art of a Norton circa 1966. Settling in, the smell of the old pages was comforting.