Excerpt from How Can I Help You by Laura Sims, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Liz and the younger clerk, Nasrin, watch me return to the desk, triumphant. "You're amazing," Nasrin says, shaking her head in wonder. I just shrug. "You should have seen the double-Ds he was ogling today," I say, lifting my eyebrows. Nasrin covers her mouth as we all stand there, the two of them giggling like children. I don't even bother being discreet-I'm laughing my deep laugh when Friday Guy slinks past the desk, still red-faced, carrying plastic bags full of loose papers as usual. Every time I think: He won't come back. He'll find some other unsuspecting branch, one without a Margo. But every Friday, he's there, eyeing those tits, waiting for me to catch him. I guess he likes the game of it.

I like the game of it, too. My nipples, tucked inside my padded bra, get hard every time we perform our little ritual. It isn't like my hospital days, but it's better than nothing.

I had to earn this swagger, though. I didn't start out swishing through the aisles, expertly managing Friday Guy and others. When I first started, I was clueless, fumbling, and forgetful. I made rushed notes on a legal pad, things like:

DO NOT renew patrons' computer time more than once, for more than an hour

Password for scanner is: SCANTHIS

Checkout forms for hot spots and tablets in drawer to my right

Must take elderly/infirm patrons downstairs in elevator with smallest key on ring

Call the non-emergency police number for someone acting out but not dangerous

Call 911 for someone dangerous to himself or others

The last two items tickled me, but I'd held my face still as Yvonne, our director, explained what could differentiate one situation from another: realistic threats of violence, a weapon suggested or in sight, crazed appearance or language. She used the male pronoun for every scenario she described, so I wrote it down: he, he. And she was right, for the most part; the only times I've punched the numbers 911 into the phone, it's been for men. Men can never keep their violence to themselves.

But incidents like those were and are rare, though even ordinary scenarios flustered me back then. When someone approached the desk without books in hand, it meant they had a question, one I wasn't sure I could answer. I tried to draw on my nursing expertise, but a nurse isn't much good in a library. And I wasn't supposed to be a nurse, of course; I was supposed to be an "experienced library assistant," like my résumé said. So I bluffed my way through as best as I could, and if Liz, Nasrin, or Yvonne caught me in a slip, I'd just say that my last library had different systems for everything. They accepted my ignorance-welcomed it, even. They were endlessly forgiving and kind. Quick to swoop in and rescue me from disgruntled patrons, though most of the patrons were patient with me, too, telling me I had a beautiful smile or an infectious laugh even when I was failing to help them. They used my name when they learned it, and that made me feel seen. Well, "seen" in the safest way possible; they saw me as Margo, or Ms. Finch-not as Jane, of course. Some days I felt the way I had in my earliest nursing days-when my uniform was a crisp, bright blue and I'd swell with pride at the slightest praise. For those first few weeks at the library, I let myself be as ignorant and swaddled as an infant; it felt like floating in a nice, hot bath.

I've always believed in the restorative properties of baths-for my patients and myself. I've bathed many a human body in distress and seen the wonders that steam and hot water can work. Even when the file said "sponge bath only" I would defy it and fully bathe the poor soul. They needed it, didn't they? And I was strong enough to handle their bodies on my own. It was a bit of a struggle, but we all need to be immersed in water, cleansed and petted by human hands. A sponge bath just doesn't cut it. Though I would limit myself to sponge baths if I were under close observation, as I often was in the final days at one hospital after another. I would start off cheerful, energetic, everyone's favorite new colleague. Eventually, though, they'd start to look at me too long. Whisper when I left the room. They would ask me things like, What were you doing in Mr. Hammerson's room? Why have you checked this and that out from the medicine supply? Why haven't you noted here and there what you've done in the file?

Excerpted from How Can I Help You by Laura Sims. Copyright © 2023 by Laura Sims. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.