“I am SO sorry! I’m a librarian at Willowbrook Library. I accidentally texted the wrong number! Please ignore that text completely! And FYI, my boss is absolutely wonderful and not at all bullheaded! Please ignore my ladder emergency. So sorry for bothering you! Have a nice day!”
I read it over three times, deleted the second “sorry” as excessive, then added it back in because maybe excessive apology was warranted when you accidentally text strangers about ladder emergencies. I hit send before I could overthink it further.
The reply came faster than I expected.
What did you mean by ‘ladder emergency’?
I blinked at the screen. Of all the potential responses—”no problem,” “wrong number,” or simply no response at all—this was unexpected. They’d actually read my rambling text and were… curious?
A peculiar warmth bloomed in my chest. This stranger could have simply ignored me or sent a curt “wrong person” reply. Instead, they’d asked a question. A real question about my ridiculous problem.
I hesitated, cursor blinking. Was it weird to continue this conversation? Probably. Was I going to do it anyway? Absolutely.
The library where I work needs a new ladder. The current one is a death trap, and I need to reach books on the top shelves for a display. My boss is on vacation and expects it done when she returns. Hence, ladder emergency.
I paused, then added,Sorry again for the random text!
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared again, as if my mysterious correspondent was carefully considering their response. Finally:
Why not order a new ladder?
A reasonable question, but one with a complicated answer involving budget constraints, procurement procedures, and the glacial pace of municipal approvals. Before I could craft a response explaining the bureaucratic nightmare that was library equipment acquisition, another message arrived:
Or borrow one from somewhere else?
Two messages. This stranger was actually engaging with my problem. Not dismissing it, not ignoring it, but offering practicalsuggestions. It was so unexpected, so different from what I’d anticipated from Mark (which was, if I’m honest, probably just a “” at best), that I felt a flutter of unexpected interest.
Who was this person? Why were they taking the time to problem-solve my ladder situation? And why did their terseness feel not rude but… intriguing?
I sat cross-legged on my couch, phone cradled in both hands, a small smile playing at my lips. This was certainly not how I’d expected my evening to go, but as I typed my reply, explaining the complications of library budgets and the timing constraints of my display, I felt a curious spark of connection to this unknown person.
Whoever they were, they weren’t Mark. But somehow, that seemed like a good thing.
CHAPTER THREE
Iwoke to birdsong and the soft glow of morning light filtering through my half-drawn curtains. For one blissful moment, I existed in that peaceful space between dreaming and waking before my brain helpfully reminded me that I’d spent the previous evening texting with a complete stranger about library ladders.
And I’d enjoyed it.
My phone sat on my nightstand, innocent-looking despite being the conduit for my social awkwardness. I reached for it, squinting at the brightness of the screen. No new messages, which was reasonable given that normal people didn’t wake up thinking about ladder emergencies.
I scrolled back through our brief exchange from last night, reading it with fresh morning eyes. The stranger’s messages were so concise they bordered on telegraphic, yet something about them felt… substantial. Like each word had been carefully chosen.
Coffee. I needed coffee before dissecting the psychological implications of punctuation marks from unknown numbers.
As I shuffled to my kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with the corner of my bookshelf, I wondered if I should just let the conversation die. It was a wrong number, after all. The socially appropriate thing would be to thank them for their concern and move on with my life.
But the ladder problem remained unsolved. And there was something oddly compelling about this mystery correspondent.
Two cups of coffee and one shower later, I found myself composing a new message:
Sorry to bother you again, but I realized I never properly explained the ladder situation. Our library has this ancient rolling wooden ladder that squeaks ominously and wobbles if you so much as breathe near it. The top rung cracked last week when I was reaching for a first edition Lovecraft.
I hesitated, then added,Any suggestions that don’t involve me becoming a cautionary tale in workplace safety videos would be appreciated.
My thumb hovered over the send button. Was this weird? Definitely. Was I doing it anyway? Apparently.
I hit send and placed my phone face-down on the counter, determined not to spend another day obsessively checking for replies. I had books to catalog, patrons to help, and a mythological creatures display to somehow manifest without breaking my neck in the process.
