It was a hot, humid Wednesday when Beatrice caught the kid watching porn on the library computer. She was sorting books on a nearby bookshelf. Eight thirteen point eight oh five, Melvil decimal system. Romance fiction. She was slotting each book haphazardly in alphabetical order. Bodice rippers mostly, with pictures of big cities, discarded lingerie or–her personal favorite–stilettos with sharp heels. A few had body shots of guys with abdominals that looked like xylophone slats. She never read t...