“Neil Gaiman,” said the man.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Israel. “I’m Israel Armstrong.”

“No, sorry,” said the man, laughing. “I mean, do you have any books by Neil Gaiman.”

“Ah,” said Israel. “Right. Yes! Of course. I think we’re all out actually. Sorry. We could always do an interlibrary loan request.”

“No, that’s OK, I’m not really in for borrowing,” said the man.

“Right,” said Israel. “You’re not one of our regulars?” And as he spoke these words Israel almost choked: he knew the regulars; he had become a local; he was mired, inured, and immersed in Tumdrum.

“No,” said the stranger. “My parents are originally from here. But I live in Belfast.”

“Well, nice to see a new face,” said Israel. Oh, god.

“My name’s Seamus,” said the man. “Seamus Fitzgibbons. I’m the Green Party candidate for the forthcoming election.”

Seamus stuck out a friendly hand.

“Oh. Hello. I’m Israel. Israel Armstrong.”

“Look, thanks for coming,” said Seamus.

“That’s OK,” said Israel. “I work here.”

“Oh, yes!” laughed Seamus. “I’m so busy at the moment with meetings and meet and greets it’s difficult to remember where I am.”

God. Israel would give anything to not know where he was. He knew exactly where he was: stuck. Seamus looked to be about Israel’s age, but while Israel had drifted and gone from job to job, aimlessly, Seamus had obviously set out with a goal and achieved a position of responsibility-prospective parliamentary candidate! A position where he wasn’t sure where he was, and conducted meetings and meet and greets! And he was a man who looked as though he enjoyed shouldering the responsibility; it was something in his eyes. If you looked closely in his eyes you could see Atlas with the world upon his shoulders.

“Let me come straight to the point, Israel,” said Seamus. Israel could never get to the point. That’s how people who shouldered responsibility spoke! They got straight to the point. “We in the Green Party don’t have a campaign bus.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel.

“And so…”

“Yes?” said Israel, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“Well, we were wondering if we could perhaps use the mobile library?”

“Ha!” said Israel.

“Is that a yes?”

“No!” said Israel instinctively. “I mean yes…No. I mean no.”

“Oh.”

“No. No. I don’t think so. No, Linda would go mad.”

“Who’s Linda?”

“Linda Wei, she’s responsible for the library provision in Tumdrum and-”

“Well, maybe I should speak to Linda directly, if you’re unable to make those sorts of decisions.”

“Well. I…It’s not that I…I mean, I am responsible for the mobile library.”

“But that sort of bigger decision would be out of your hands?”

“Not entirely,” said Israel, smarting rather from the implication that he was a powerless functionary. “I do have some…sway with these things.” He had no sway with anything: he didn’t even have sway with himself.

“Well.”

“I could probably take it to the mobile library subcommittee,” offered Israel.

“Well, the election’s in less than a week now, so we would really need to know very soon,” said Seamus.

“Ah,” said Israel.

“I don’t suppose it could be justified on the basis of educational benefit?”

“I don’t think so,” said Israel.

“Look,” said Seamus. “I really didn’t want to put you in a difficult position. It was worth asking, but.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“If you don’t ask you don’t get,” said Seamus.

“That’s true,” said Israel. Israel didn’t ask. He didn’t get.

“Look, that’s fine. Let’s forget about using the van. Maybe I could just leave you some of these.” He produced from a battered old leather satchel a thick bundle of election leaflets.

“Sure,” said Israel. “Just leave them there.”

Seamus carefully fanned out the leaflets on the issue desk.

“There,” he said proudly.

“Recycled paper?” said Israel pointlessly.

“Of course,” said Seamus. “Look, thanks a million for your help.”

“My pleasure,” said Israel.

“Look,” said Seamus-he liked to say “look,” a lot. “Look, I’m afraid I need to get on here. The campaign’s hotting up in the final few days.”

“Of course,” said Israel. “Yes.”

“We’ve got to keep out Maurice Morris.”

“Quite,” said Israel.

“I think the tide’s turning toward the Greens,” said Seamus.

“Good. Good,” said Israel. He thought he might vote Green, actually.

“Well, lovely to meet you, and thanks again,” said Seamus.

As Seamus left, Ted reentered, smelling of cigarettes. He honed in immediately on the leaflets.

“What are these?” he said disdainfully.

“What?” said Israel, who was still trying to decide whether or not to vote Green.

“These.”

“They’re leaflets.”

“I can see they’re leaflets.”

“The man just left them in.” They featured a picture of Seamus, with his goatee and cropped hair, in what looked like an orchard, eating an apple. “They’re for the Green Party. For the election. I’m thinking I might vote Green, actually.”

“Ach,” said Ted.

“No, I might,” said Israel.

“Aye, you would,” said Ted. “But we’re going to have to get rid of these.” And he scooped up the leaflets from the counter.

“We’re allowed to carry public information leaflets,” said Israel.

“Public information,” said Ted. “Aye. But this isn’t public information, is it? This is propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda,” said Israel.

“It is, so it is.”

“What about all the billboards Maurice Morris has up ev erywhere?” said Israel. There was one, in fact, looming above the van even now, high up on a telephone pole, with Maurice’s face grinning out into the cold wind.

“Aye, well, he’s entitled, isn’t he? He’s paid for that. The Greens want to get organized themselves, get some billboards up, nothing to stop them.”

“They probably can’t afford it.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” said Ted.

“Anyway,” said Israel, grabbing the leaflets back out of Ted’s hands. “I told him I was going to display his leaflets.”

“We’re not supposed to,” said Ted.

“Well, I told him, and I will.”

“Ach,” said Ted.

“It’s censorship if we don’t,” said Israel.

“Censorship!” said Ted. “I don’t know anything about censorship. But I do know that Linda wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, Linda doesn’t need to know, does she?” said Israel, fanning the leaflets back out on the counter. “How would she find out?”

“He did what?” said Linda Wei, who was not only Israel’s boss, but also Tumdrum’s only and most prominent lesbian Chinese single mother, and who was currently sipping a large glass of restorative Friday night chardonnay at the bar of the back room of the First and Last. Linda was wearing her habitual heavy makeup and her trademark sunglasses, perched film-starishly high up on her forehead, and she’d pushed the sartorial boat out even further than usual this evening, with a red beret, a voluminous bright purple silk blouse, and a pair of green-and-brown camouflage combat trousers, teamed with blazing pink customized plastic clogs: she looked like she was ready for anything, from the catwalk to the playgroup, to her own show on a shopping channel, to tackling insurgents in the jungles of Belize.

“Hmm,” said Ron, chairman of the Mobile Library Steering Committee, who was wearing his gray suit and nursing a glass of tap water. “Leaflets.”

“Is he a total idiot?” said Linda.

“And what with lending out the Unshelved-” said Ron.

“But Maurice Morris’s daughter!” exclaimed Linda. “Is he out of his tiny mind! The Unshelved! To Maurice’s daughter!”

“Aye,” said Ron, who was a man of few and usually rather depressing words. “Alas.”

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen!” said Linda. “God love her. What do they know at fourteen? My eldest’s sixteen, for goodness’ sake, and he’s a wee babby still. Fourteen!”