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Sticker layered upon sticker, links in a long chain of used bookstores, charity shops and garage sales, each claiming supremacy from the last. Somewhere, underneath them all, Alex wondered if there was an original to be found. A single "new: $6.99" or something beneath all those "used: $1.00" tags. He poked a claw underneath a faded green price tag; the sticker crumpled, bunched up like a blanket pushed to the foot of a bed. The husky just managed to get the edge up when he paused. There was work to do. He smoothed the sticker out, pinching a fresh one from a sheet atop the sales counter. Fifty cents, a new link forged. Alex sighed and reached for another book, one of many in a pile at his feet. Donations. Much appreciated of course. The Library Pals Bookstore lived on the contents of dusty attics and closets across Kingston county. It was just, hell, so much of it was junk! Not just in the spiritual sense, but sheer paw-to-god condition. All types made it to the Library, many of which they couldn't accept. Some they could but not without a knowing glance between volunteers. Even then their standards weren't terribly high. As long as the cover wasn't torn and all the pages were in good or good enough order, they were accepted. Speaking of which... Alex shook his head at the old paperback in his paws. There was a cover at least, pristine, though not especially worth preserving. A white wolf stood stoic amidst a great valley. He was massive, with muscles that bulged against a very tight shirt. A doe stood behind him, slender in a flowing sundress, clutching at the wolf’s massive arm like there was a fifty foot drop beneath her high heels. Both looked off into some grand unseen distance no doubt full of adventure. Even further behind, a sinister-looking black wolf stood, revolver clutched in his–much smaller than the other man’s–paw. Wolf Heart: book 1 of The Predation trilogy It was in short, dreck. Countless novels exactly like it passed in and out of Library Pals every day. Hundreds! At least that’s how it felt. Alex should have been used to them. Pulp and bodice rippers were part and parcel of used stores. People got their cheap fictional fix then stuffed these things away for years, until finally the day came to toss them in a box for donation. Better that than a garbage can, he supposed. This one looked like it was from the sixties, maybe older; an age of highs and lows, truly. Still, Alex’s opinion on literature didn’t much matter to Library Pals. What mattered was physical quality. Beyond the cover corners bent, pages tore, dust emanated from yellowed paper. The husky ran a testing finger along a half-broken spine, flicked a few paper flakes off his paw, then opened the book to see the worst crime of all. Handwritten notes ran up and down the first page. And the second. And the third. Purple ink underlined black, slightly faded text. Almost every page had some kind of unnatural mark. Scribbles, tears, highlights, corners bent into dog ears because apparently grabbing a bookmark was too much to ask. This book shouldn't have been accepted. Clearly the receiving team needed a polite talking-to. Alex made a mental note to do just that as he flipped through pages, more out of habit than anything else. Just as he was about to put the book down, something flickered past Alex's vision. He paused, then flipped through again and again, searching for something he knew shouldn’t have been there, couldn’t have been there. Finally after some time and a little frustration he found what he was looking for: right there, nestled in one of chapter seven’s rather generous section breaks, was a fantastic doodle of two wolves. Two male wolves. The husky snapped the book shut on a finger and glanced about, heart beating hard in his chest. Then he took a breath, a few, made sure absolutely no one was in the store, and returned to page 60. They were...cute. Two wolves, two men held each other in a way that certainly wasn't allowed. Less allowed surely was the way the large white wolf, absolutely enveloping the black in those Roman columns called arms, pressed his lips against his rival’s muzzle. Alex stared with a mix of surprise, horror, and...excitement? Yes, excitement! He was...there was... He wasn't alone. There was no signature, no mark to identify the artist. Instead, a note in tiny lettering clung to the very edge of the page. "I wish they'd do this instead" More doodles decorated the margins, displaying both male wolves in various romantic—even illicit—scenes. They seemed to largely confer with the story’s text, only swapping the doe for the leading man's romantic rival. They held paws, shared drinks, fought monsters, did basically everything people like them, like him, weren't allowed to do (except for that last part, at least). He crawled through the book then, searched for more, read comments and notes, handwritten alternations to scenes. Every page was something else, something Alex had never been allowed to see or say outside his own head. He wasn't even sure other folks like him existed for a long time. There wasn't a word for it really, other than "degenerate" and Alex didn't consider himself particularly that. Word on the street said otherwise of course. If anyone was willing to acknowledge the existence of people like him at all, it was through jokes. Cruel ones. Yet here in the margins of some cheesy, beat-up paperback was proof people like him existed, lived and dreamed beyond the confines of jokes, insults, police reports. He shut the book. It was a throwaway, something they couldn't sell and shouldn't have taken in. The husky glanced back and forth before slipping it into his pocket.