Cameron tugged the zipper of his coat, crossed his arms, and burst out of the library with squinted eyes. The flurry infused wind stung his pink skin. Flecks of snow clung to his deep green beard. His dark coat puffed out his shoulders, added weight to his hips, and made his legs appear stubby. From a distance, he looked like a bewildered bear wandering through the empty city streets. Except that bears are rounder. Sharp corners and big bumps protruded from Cameron's coat. He resembled a robot whose mass of metal guts had sprung out from his torso and pelvic area, somewhat concealed by an L.L. Bean clearance item. But whether he was a two-ton furry animal or an android, the truth was that Cameron had stolen about twenty books in a single visit to the University of Dame Rochelle.

Winter break has a way of silencing a college town. Professors issue a sigh of relief as their least favorite pupils head out the door. Students rummage through their dorms for clean and dirty underwear to bring home. That way they have at least one fresh pair to wear while Mom does their laundry. Janitors turn off the lights in most university buildings and stay home, safe from the stench of bleach for at least a few weeks. So when the end of the semester came, the small city of Spring Lake naturally fell to a faint hum. Cameron walked the streets unnoticed mainly because there were no drunken freshmen or worker bee Honors students roaming around at all hours to notice him. He appreciated having the city to himself.

As Cameron ambled from block to block, past gray buildings and snowy trees, he recited a little poem he had come across in the university literary magazine. The words flowed out of his mouth like a chant. He drummed the book pressed flat against his abdomen as he said:

"Centuries ago, I was a dormant dragon
And only your beautiful eyes could wake me
Those spiraling ropes of hair brushing my scaly face
Your milk and honey tongue taming my flaming one
You, my lady, my princess, enchantress that you were
You, my fairy, my pixie, enchantress that you were."

The journey home seemed to pass by more quickly as Cameron recited the poem increasingly faster and louder. Soon each syllable began to match the flapping of his torn shoe soles against the sidewalk. "Centuries." Clack. Clack. With the added noise of Cameron's scarf rustling in the wind and the beads at the end of his coat's cords clicking together, Cameron became a one-man band on the lonely winter night. 

About two-thirds of the way home, Cameron halted before a massive mural. It wasn't the first time he had silenced every molecule in his body to marvel at the grand painting. He had passed the mural everyday of his life for the past decade, but never once walked on by without admiring it for at least a minute. The mural measured about fifty by fifty feet. Tolstoy, Joan Didion, Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, Ernest Hemingway, George Elliot, and Shakespeare's adult heads all bobbled atop baby bodies. Each body sported an old-fashioned cloth diaper and frilly infant socks. All the writers held each others' pudgy hands and frolicked around a blazing fire. Books crumpled in the flames. The artist had drawn a giant speech bubble above the writers' heads, which stated, "Let's all go to law school!*" At the bottom of the scene, the asterisk read, "*A hellish cultural hypothetical." Cameron always shuddered upon seeing the mural, the kind of shudder that hits every point from your scalp to your toe nails. Then he kept walking, avoiding the rhymes and minor insults children had scribbled on the sidewalk.

At last, Cameron arrived home. He marched under the park's combined welcome sign and iron gate. He ran as fast as he could without dropping his ill-begotten property. Books slipped, covers poked, pages fluttered, but somehow Cameron managed. Panting, he dropped before his knees. He landed before a large system of bushes, charcoal gray in the low light.  Cameron unzipped his coat and let the books fall onto the mulch-covered ground. He crawled into the bushes, whipped around toward the entrance a few feet later, and started scraping the books toward him. Cameron pulled them in until the books joined him in the center of the leafy cluster. The spot was almost completely black then, but in the daytime quite a sight awaited whoever wished to intrude upon Cameron's abode.

Cameron had ripped out some of the branches in the middle of where the bushes met to create a comfy hole shaded by a leafy canopy. After gutting out his living space, Cameron sewed a span of scrap plastic to the canopy's branches for a roof. For walls, he piled up books along the cleared ground's perimeter. He stuck some of the gum he had peeled off the sidewalks in between the layers of books to discourage them from sliding. Inevitably, the books would scoot from time to time, but generally protected Cameron from the outside world. For storage, he dug holes in the ground and covered them with discarded plywood. When he felt cold, he built a fire. When he needed light, he flicked on his cheap plastic lantern. If he itched for a good story, one always sat within an arm's length. Everything smelled vaguely of old urine and moldy books, but Cameron never once complained.

Still muttering the poem to himself, Cameron gently wedged the new books here and there to fill gaps in his walls. Eventually, Cameron found a place for his last book and yawned. He lifted up a plank of wood, grabbed his blankets from his underground cubby, and pulled the moth-eaten cloths over himself. Cameron fell asleep to the sounds of drifting snow and sputtering cars. 

In the morning, Cameron woke up mumbling, and rubbed his face. He waited for his vision to focus on the blurry titles in front of him. Once he could read An Anthology of Latino Literature and Sixteen Ballads, he flattened his hair, lifted up his hood, and inched out of his cave. The search for breakfast had commenced. If he was lucky, someone had thrown away a half-eaten bag of chips or pizza crusts. On especially good days, he found almost entire brown bagged lunches in the garbage cans. During the academic year, Cameron could count on the university cafeteria's dumpster for three full meals a day. School breaks offered no such guarantees. He had quickly discovered that most of the restaurants in Spring Lake re-used left-overs and disguised truly picked-over food in things like stews and puddings. 

Cameron wandered out of the park and into the streets, meandering from main roads into alleys and then onto graffiti-laden side streets. A crust of bread or even a half-eaten chocolate bar would beat nothing, he figured. Caloric intake and saturated fat levels didn't concern him. Most of what Cameron ate contained no nutrition label, anyway. 

He passed a couple in their late twenties at one point and asked them for change, but they ignored him. He winced and concentrated on the specifications of the parking signs down the road to distract himself from his embarrassment. Then he continued his journey. When he stopped an elderly lady, she started yelling, "Don't mug me! Please don't mug me!" Too humiliated to say anything at that point, Cameron kept on walking. He started critiquing the font of every store sign he passed.

Cameron spent the time imagining the novel he would write one day, from the subtlety of the plot to the wording of a particular description to the mentality of his principal character. A part of him ached when he realized he would probably never put it all to paper. He ached again when he realized it could never then be published.

He had probably been trolling the city for an hour when he skidded to a halt on the ice. Cameron bent over and picked up a burgundy and gold card key. The colors were the official ones emblazoned on everything the University of Dame Rochelle ever designed, displayed, or sold. He flipped over the key and grinned. It read, 'Granger Hall, Rm. 434.' Cameron stood there for a moment, trying to locate Granger Hall in his mind. 

"Ah, that's right...Mitchell and 18th."

After pocketing the key, Cameron jogged over to Granger Hall. When he arrived, he looked up at the monstrous brick building, thinking about the rumors he had heard concerning dorm life. The cramped bedrooms. The obnoxious roommates. The overbearing R.A.s. The filthy communal bathrooms. The cockroaches. 

"But this place is beautiful."

Cameron gulped and gripped the rail lining the building's dramatic front steps. He darted up, miraculously not slipping on the sheets of ice sealed over each step. When he reached the top, Cameron caught his breath and studied the key card reader. He shut his eyes and waved the key. The reader beeped. Cameron opened his eyes and beamed when he saw the tiny green light flashing at him. He pushed open the door and twirled around the main lobby. Nobody sat at the front security desk.

Aside from the sound of a buzzing air unit, the dormitory was as silent as a stately mansion. A brown and beige paisley carpet stretched out in all directions as far as Cameron could see. Plush green sofas and armchairs circled plain glass tables. Paintings of middle-aged, white men with shiny glasses and tastefully groomed facial hair adorned the walls, which were a soothing off-white. Florescent flyers stating the dormitory rules threw off the conservative color scheme, but hardly made the place feel unpleasant. They just looked amiss, like a psychedellic clown wandering onto the Senate floor. 

Cameron scoffed again when he re-played pesky college students' complaints in his head:

"I mean, my dorm's not even half the size of my room back home."

"Why are the caf burgers always overdone?"

"The bed is waaay too close to the floor."

Cameron raced to the elevator and pressed the 'Up' button hard. When it opened, he gasped softly at the gold-framed mirrors gleaming inside. Cameron boarded, pushed the fourth floor button, and sang as the elevator moved closer to heaven.

"Centuries ago, I was a dormant dragon," he purred as he tapped his feet. Suddenly his tattered coat, shredded shoes, and greasy hair did not bother him. He brightened when the elevatorwent ding. Cameron popped out, strolled to room 434 and inhaled deeply. A small part of him feared that the key wouldn't work, that he wouldn't gain access to the room, that he would have to face the cold again. But when he waved the key, the card reader blinked green. Cameron's heart stopped for a second. Then he thrust open the door and dove into the room.

Inspirational and rock star posters alike covered the walls. Their messages ranged from, "Always reach for the highest," to "F*ck the mainstream." Textbooks and magazines were piled high everywhere. Journals, papers, pencils, and notebooks littered the carpet. Not even a mouse could squeeze by without touching a printed word or paper product of some kind. The room stank of sweat and fake citrus. When Cameron detected a hint of grease and maybe sugar, he hopped around, raiding cabinets, peering under the furniture.  

"I bet those brats left some stale popcorn and 'top secret' diaries somewhere."

At the top of the closet, behind a shoe box, Cameron unearthed a stash of snacks. He pulled down the box and rubbed his hands at the sight of pistachios, crackers, peanut butter, and bottles of ice tea. After eating as much as he could, Cameron plopped onto one of the beds. He picked up one of the books beside him and began learning about Gothic cathedrals in France. Fifty pages later, his head thudded gently against the pillow and he fell asleep almost instantly.

When Cameron rose the next morning, he immediately sensed a change. He sat up slowly and twirled his head like an owl's. The walls stared back at him, totally naked. 

"What, no Marilyn Manson? What a shame," he grunted. Cameron rubbed his eyes, making strange impressions in the thin skin surrounding them. Then he kicked his feet like a finicky toddler so that the blanket scuttled off of him. "What happened to that kitten that wanted me to always believe in myself?" Cameron shook his head slowly as he looked down at the floor.

"Wow."

All the papers, books, and notebooks had disappeared.

"I thought...the janitors...what?"

Cameron pinched himself. "No, they're all home. Wait, maybe...maybe I sleep walk and I just don't know it." He sprinted out of bed and opened anything with a door. Once he had pawed through all the cabinets and closets and found none of the posters or books that had overwhelmed every inch of space in the room, he paused. He blew out a gust of air and sat down in the middle of the floor. Tension overtook his chest.

"I probably...just...I guess I dreamt all those things were here. I need more sleep. Or breakfast. Yeah, breakfast."

Cameron shuffled to the box he had found the day before. He pulled out the bag of pistachios. Squinting, he turned the bag over again and again. Unlike yesterday, the bag contained no label.

"How am I supposed to know how many calories this...?" Cameron shrugged his shoulders and snapped open a pistachio. Then he seized the green and purple nut, popped it his mouth, and went through the rest of the box. "I'm craving some of those crackers." 

He picked up the package. It was plain red with a picture of a smiling lamb on it. Not even the word 'cracker' appeared on the wrapper.

Cameron started groping for some crackers as he said, "Talk about generic brand."

A few minutes later, Cameron felt stuffed. He headed out the door, down the elevator, and to the lobby. All the signs about staying quiet and being respectful remained, but in a new form.They all contained far more icons than Cameron had remembered, and not a single letter. 

"I don't even...what happened to that one that said it's polite to mop your drunken Saturday night vomit away from the communal toilets?" Cameron snickered, but he felt uncomfortable immediately afterwards. "I should bring some more of those crackers, in case I develop a stomachache at the library or something."

Cameron glanced at the flyer once more before heading out into the city. "Well," he said to himself, "At least I can go to the library. That place never changes." Cameron began whistling, speeding up his pace the closer he got to the collosal building. 

On his walk to the library, Cameron raised his eyebrows at the stop signs that simply stared back at him as red octagons. "Did somebody tag all of them overnight or something?" He mumbled to himself. Cameron scratched his head again and again, but eventually got moving again. Strangely, as Cameron wakened more and more, he observed that none of the street signs contained words. 

"Must be something going on. I haven't been paying enough attention to the newspapers, that's what. Too much poetry. Good thing I won't be on 'Jeopardy!' anytime soon."

Cameron kicked a can and bumbled toward the library, breathing more heavily than only a few minutes before. 

"The first thing I do...as soon as I get there...I'm going straight to the Local section and seeing what this is all about. Because this just isn't funny anymore. No, sir." Cameron rammed his hands deeper into his pockets, rounded the corner, and stopped. He gaped. 

The mural had been replaced. Instead of the bizarre writers with baby bodies, smears of dancing ants and grasshoppers covered the bricks. A rainbow arched over the insects. It all seemed very child-like, with simple, contour lines and no shadows. The bright and bold colors jumped out at Cameron. He scanned every inch for words, seeing nothing. He swallowed, trying to hold back his tears, but a couple managed to trickle down his beard, anyway.

Cameron marched on, mumbling prayers he had made up himself. Spring Lake could not have transformed completely in just one night. But when Cameron reached his favorite and most familiar block in all the city, he gaped yet again.

The library no longer touched the sky. It surpassed it, threatening to tickle the moon. Twice as tall as Cameron remembered, the building shone bright silver with large, blue-tinted windows. Cameron's throat tightened. He turned his head to where the library sign once stood. Now a humungous concrete block occupied the space. Pictures Cameron couldn't make out, pictures that looked vaguely like scrap metal and gears, stood where words should have been.

A young, corpulent man dressed in all black waddled past Cameron. Cameron shouted, "Hey!" to the man's back. The man cleared his throat and turned around.

"Yes?"

"Um, hi. Do you know what happened to the library?"

"What's a library?"

Cameron forced a laugh. "Is this April 1st?"

"Look, guy, I don't got time for no trivia game. And, for the record, it's May. Looks like you're a month behind."

"Wait. Okay, if this isn't the library, what is it?"

"Where are you from? This is the Robotic Systems Supply Plant-Division 14."

"What's...that?"

"Are you for real, man?"

Cameron blushed as the young man turned toward the building, again. The plant's doors jutted out like a pair of puckered lips. Then they sucked in the man with a mix of slurping and vacuum sounds.

"Wha--?"

Cameron spun around and ran hard. As he pumped his legs and tasted his hair in his mouth, he passed wordless billboards, wordless storefronts, and wordless bus advertisements. He continued running until he reached the park. 

"This is the one place--the only place--I can be sure..." 

Cameron dropped to this knees and pushed his way through the bushes. Despite the branches and leaves whipping his face, he persisted. By the time he came to the familiar clearing, he looked up and down, left to right. His books were not there. The plastic roof he had rigged and his few, meager possessions remained, but his books were not there. Slowly, Cameron backed out of the bushes.

For the rest of the day, Cameron wandered around Spring Lake. Everything seemed the same, or at least similar enough, except for the absence of the written word. As the sun began to set, Cameron plunked down on a public bench. He began singing to himself: 

"Centuries ago, I was a dormant dragon
And only your beautiful eyes could wake me
Those spiraling ropes of hair brushing my scaly face
Your milk and honey tongue taming my flaming one
You, my lady, my princess, enchantress that you were
You, my fairy, my pixie, enchantress that you were."

Cameron repeated the verse over and over until a man of similar means stepped up to him.

"You got a cig?" he barked. "Got me the shakes." The man crossed his arms over his worn coat.

"Sure. If...you can explain something for me."

"Oh, I gotta earn it then?"

Cameron forced a half-smile. "That's right. Now, can you explain why there aren't any words anywhere?"

"What you mean? You just said a bunch of 'em."

"No, not spoken. I know those still exist. But what about written ones?"

"Written words? Man, why'd you wanna write 'em down?"

Cameron looked blank. "I mean, that's why books exist 'cause--"

"What is this? A school lesson? Books are ancient history, man."

"How can that be true? I read one yesterday."

The man scrunched up his face. "You what? Where'd you find a book? You rob a museum or somethin'?"

"No, I--"

"Man, stop makin' stuff up."

"I'm not--"

"I said stop lyin', man! Seriously. You ever take a history class, you know there ain't been no books since 2020. Not unless you count the ones locked up in them fancy glass cases."

Cameron froze. "What do you mean since 2020? It is 2020."

"Whoah, brother! You like Renaissance faires, too?"

Cameron interrupted the man's laughter. "What year is it?"

"Um, 2120, man. 2120. What, you went to sleep for a hundred years or somethin'?"

Cameron dug into his pocket and shoved his palm toward the man. "Here's your cigarette."

The man took it and just as he began patting his coat for a lighter, Cameron threw his at him. The man beamed. 

"You ain't bad, man. You ain't bad."

Snowflakes started to flutter through the cool, gray-black of the night. Eventually, Cameron asked for his lighter back and said good-bye to the man. He dragged his feet toward home again.

When Cameron arrived at his well-known cluster of bushes, he knelt down at the entrance. He flicked open his lighter, waited for a twig to catch fire, and then dropped the lighter on the ground. He left before he could see the flames consume his sanctuary. 

Cameron walked to the center of the park, to its big lawn. He lied down, nestled his head in the grass, and fell asleep. Flurries swirled through the wind, landing on his hair, coat, and skin. It was a frigid night.