“Wanna see her in action?” Sloane offered. “I want it even more than a visit to your coffee bar.” Sloane’s ruby red lips curved. “Follow me.” I followed Sloane up the open staircase to the second floor, which housed even more book stacks, more seating, more plants, and a few private rooms off to one side. In the back was another long, low desk under a hanging sign that said Community. Waylay sat on a stool behind the desk, frowning at an electronic device. The device’s owner, an elderly Black man in a crisp button-down and trousers, leaned on the counter. “That’s Hinkel McCord. He’s 101 years
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