Scene 5 - February 17th

Interior Coulton Library, Early Evening

Quinn Kaufman

January had been a nice break from school, but I was well and truly back into the swing of things - especially with the addition of a thesis to write. Thankfully, the classes I had taken for my final semester at UNV were relatively light in comparison to those I had completed the previous semester - I had planned ahead, and left some simple classes for the last semester so that I would be able to put most of my energy into a thesis.

Of course, I mused as I knelt in front of a bookshelf, trying to find the book on the history of magical treatments in medicine that I needed for my History of Magical Science class, that didn’t mean I could just breeze through them. I still needed to do the homework and write the essays, even if - as in the case of Professor Marigold’s class - they were simple for me at this point.

And today, unfortunately, the book I wanted to use as a source wasn’t on the shelf.

I checked one last time, seeing that, yes, I was in the right place according to the Dewey number, and that, no, the book still wasn’t there. With a sigh, I sat back on my heels. “Fuck.”

I could, I supposed, find a different book for this paper. But the summary had been so perfect for what I wanted to write about, I really didn’t want to. So what were my options? It hadn’t been available from any other libraries in the city, nor did I think I could I afford to buy it. I could maybe find it online, but I had always found it easier to focus on physical books...

Something shifted in my sense of presence, and I noticed someone approaching behind me. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking up. “It’s all - Devon?”

My father’s old doctor blinked at me in surprise, and crouched to join me near the floor. “Quinn! I almost didn’t recognize you - your hair’s grown a bit, hasn’t it?”

I ran my hand through it - it had been over a year since I had gotten a haircut. A few weeks ago, it had finally lost its long war against gravity, and now instead of rising into a jewfro it rolled down to my shoulders. “Yeah, I should get a haircut at some point,” I agreed. “Or buy some hairbands, at least.”

“Maybe,” they said, then paused. “I heard you swear. Is something wrong?”

I showed them the note I had written. “I’m just having trouble finding this book, that’s all. I need it for class. Well, want it for class.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble,” Devon declared, rising. “Don’t move.” As I watched, they dashed down the aisle - quietly, it was a library, after all - and returned a minute later with the book in hand. “Here you go!”

“Devon, you’re a literal lifesaver,” I said, thanking them profusely. “Forget the doctor thing, this is your good karma for the month.” They laughed. “How’d you know where it was?”

“I had taken it down from the shelves for a project I’m doing. Don’t worry,” they assured me, “I’ve already made copies of the parts I want to quote. It’s all yours.”

“Thanks a million,” I said again, slipping it into my bag.

“So... still in college, huh?”

“Yeah. Last semester and it was already paid for - no reason not to, right?”

“Right. But...” they leaned in a little and whispered. “You’re Newton, right?”

“Gee,” I said, flatly, “however did you know?”

“Well, you were having that crisis over a job offer a few months ago, and within a few weeks of that Newton joined the Journeymen, and made it quite public that they’re the first superhero to use they/them pronouns. Other than Multiplex.”

I rubbed the back of my head awkwardly. “Well... turns out I was wrong about that, actually. There’s an independent hero in Toronto who uses they/them, and they’re kind of annoyed at me. Since they’re not part of the MLED, the PR guy’s sweep missed them.”

“Oh.”

“On the other hand, I’ve been messaged by a few other nonbinary heroes who said I inspired them to come out publically, so... ups and downs, I guess?” I shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

Devon chuckled. “Believe me, I know.” They stood and turned to go. “I... should probably get back to my project. But... I just want to ask if you’re doing all right, with... I mean, it’s only been a few months...”

I flinched internally, but realized, after a moment, that the expected twinge of internal pain and grayness in response hadn’t come. Instead, there was just a faint sadness, a bit of grief that passed before long. “I’m... doing all right,” I assured them, a little surprised to find that I was telling the truth. “It still hurts sometimes, but... I’m getting better.”