The curtain fell shut, the white lace settling back into place. Inside the house, the single lamp clicked off, leaving the front room completely dark.
The yellow porch light flickered, leaving us in the cold Indiana breeze.
We paid three dollars for a roll of quarters at the front desk of the Greenfield Library. The librarian, a woman in a thick wool cardigan, did not look up from her crossword puzzle as she pointed us toward the stairs. Down in the basement, the air was cold and smelled of damp cardboard and vinegar from the old film reels.
Noah threaded the grey plastic reel of microfiche film through the glass rollers of the reader. His hands were steady, but he rubbed his temples with both thumbs when the film caught on the edge of the metal lens holder. The green light of the screen illuminated his face, casting deep shadows under his eyes.
