“So calm your waves and slow the churn, and you may have my precious bones on my return.” - The Decemberists, “Annan Water” If there was once a time when he could smell anything other than permanent marker fumes, Austin can’t remember it. He’s been sitting for hours, systematically blotting out the Dewey Decimal numbers on the spines of books and the Antlers Library stamps on their title pages so that there’s nothing that can tie them back to ever having belonged in a library to begin with. It’s so no one will try to return them. They’re all old books, being donated to various places, and Channery has been clear that she doesn’t want any of them making their way back onto the shelves for any reason.