A Book in the Row

A thick, linen-bound book was sticking out past the edge of the lowest bookshelf. I took three slow steps across the rug to reach it. Lowering my head, I squared my frill against the protruding spine and leaned my weight forward. The heavy paper slid back into the gap with a dry, muffled scrape against the dark wood. It resisted for a moment, then sat perfectly flush with the rest of the row. I stood back on all fours, waiting in the stillness. Nothing slipped. The whole shelf was neat and level again.