To be honest, Bailey would’ve rather sold a kidney. How could her mother expect her to get rid of her favorite romances, adventures, tragedies, and castles afar? Resting on her haunches, Bailey stared at her treasure chest full of precious gems until the weight of the task before her started dragging her down like an anchor. The spines of her friends stood straight and tall as always. But rather than posing for a formal portrait as usual, they were ramrod straight, gazing back at the firing squad, calmly awaiting their demise. Arranged by preference, Bailey plucked the book from the bottom right. Starting small, she easily placed the first book in the box hastily scribbled with the word “sell”. On their own, each was almost worthless, but her mom said they could fetch about $20 for the whole box, which Bailey interpreted as 5 more boxes of cheap cigarettes for her mom to paint her lungs blacker than the ink on the pages. From the other room came the clang of dishes being recklessly tossed into the cupboard. Her mom said she’d let Bailey keep the books if she knew a way to cook a pot of rice in one. Simply thinking about another food stamps meal brought a sour taste to her mouth. Freedom was sweet, but government charity was as bitter as black coffee. Bailey’s thoughts drifted back to her sobering task. Only 5 left on death row. Maybe her mom was right. They were nothing but lumps of useless chicken scratch slapped onto some pressed, pulped tress. Add some string, glue, a fancy cover, and you’ve got yourself a luxury they couldn’t afford. Bailey was aware of their financial situation, but couldn’t help reminiscing about better times. Back when she used to spend her pocket money at local garage sales, and when they had a house, and she had never even known what powdered milk tasted like. The allowance was gone now and so too were the books. As Bailey gently placed the last one in the cardboard coffin, she caught a faint whiff of musty book smell. She was overwhelmed with an onslaught of memories of rainy afternoons, salty tears, cups of tea, warm fireplaces, her mother’s work apron, and the smell of cinnamon that seemed to pervade the air in her old house. Bailey surreptitiously turned to the door to see if dictator mom was looking. She was busy frowning at another red envelope marked “last notice” in bold letters. Taking her sliver of opportunity, Bailey stuffed the book under her pillow, raised from the dead. “all packed up!” she called out. Her mom was too occupied examining the letter to notice the underlying hint of victory in her daughter’s weary voice.