Old wisdom
He doesn’t know shit about shit. So he’s starting at the H’s and working his way forward. He follows the numbers into the stacks. That’s where the old guys find him. They don’t approach so much as materialize, like they were rendered in once the library decided he’d earned them. One wears suspenders and carries himself like a man who once lifted something enormous and never stopped feeling it. The other has a faded military cap he absolutely earned. They are mid-argument about nothing important. “Hobo section,” Suspender Guy says, reading the spine that Grayson's finger is resting on. “Didn’t know they had one.” “They call it Sociology now,” Cap Guy replies. “Progress.” “Whut’cha looking at hobo history for?” “I plan to be one,” Grayson says. They laugh—easy, practiced laughs. The kind meant to warm the room. Grayson doesn’t smile. The laughter fades when they look at him properly. “You serious?” Cap Guy asks. “Yeah.” A pause. “Why?” “Out of work.” That answer settles in witho...