Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Kat thunks a finger down on her keyboard. Pictures of pages start flying to far-off computers, where they will become strings of symbols that can be copied and, soon, decoded. No chains can hold them now.

*   *   *

While Kat’s computer goes to work, I ask Penumbra about the burned book marked MOFFAT. Neel is listening, too.

“Was it him?” I ask.

“Yes, of course,” Penumbra says. “Clark Moffat. He did his work here, in New York. But before that, my boy—he was our customer.” He grins and winks. He thinks this will impress me, and he’s right. I’m retroactively starstruck.

“But that was not a codex vitae you held,” Penumbra says, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

Obviously. It was a book of ashes. “What happened?”

“He published it, of course.”

Wait, I’m confused: “The only books Moffat ever published were The Dragon-Song Chronicles.”

“Yes.” Penumbra nods. “His codex vitae was the third and final volume of the saga he started before he joined us. It was a tremendous profession of faith to finish this work, then surrender it to the fellowship’s shelves. He presented it to the First Reader—this was Nivean, before Corvina—and it was accepted.”

“But he took it back.”

Penumbra nods. “He could not make the sacrifice. He could not leave his final volume unpublished.”

So Moffat couldn’t remain part of the Unbroken Spine because Neel and I and countless other nerdy sixth-graders all had our minds blown by the third and final volume of The Dragon-Song Chronicles.

“Man,” Neel says, “this explains a lot.”

He’s right. The third volume blows middle-school minds because it’s a total curveball. The tone shifts. The characters change. The plot goes off the rails and begins to obey some hidden logic. People always assumed it was because Clark Moffat started doing psychedelic drugs, but the truth is even stranger.

Penumbra frowns. “I believe Clark made a tragic mistake.”

Mistake or not, what a world-bending decision. If The Dragon-Song Chronicles were never completed, I’d never have been friends with Neel. He wouldn’t be sitting here. Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here. Maybe I’d be surfing in Costa Rica with some bizarro-universe best friend. Maybe I’d be sitting in a gray-green office.

Thank you, Clark Moffat. Thank you for your mistake.

THE DRAGON-SONG CHRONICLES, VOLUME II

BACK IN SAN FRANCISCO, I find Mat and Ashley together in the kitchen, both scarfing complicated salads, both wearing stretchy bright-colored athletic gear. Mat has a carabiner clipped at his waist.

“Jannon!” he exclaims. “Have you ever been rock-climbing?”

I concede that I have not. As a rogue, I prefer athletic activities that require agility, not strength.

“See, that’s what I thought, too,” Mat says, nodding, “but it’s not strength. It’s strategy.” Ashley eyes him proudly. He continues, waving a forkful of greens, “You have to learn each course as you go—come up with a plan, try it out, adjust. Seriously, my brain is more tired than my arms right now.”

“How was New York?” Ashley asks politely.

I’m not sure how to respond. Something like: Well, the mustachioed master of the secret library is going to be pissed that I copied the entirety of his ancient codebook and delivered it to Google, but at least I got to stay at a nice hotel?

Instead, I say, “New York was good.”

“They’ve got some great climbing gyms.” She shakes her head. “Nothing out here even compares.”

“Yeah, the interior design at Frisco Rock City definitely … leaves something to be desired,” Mat says.

“That purple wall…” Ashley shudders. “I think they just bought whatever paint was on sale.”

“And a climbing wall is such an opportunity,” Mat says. He’s getting excited. “What a canvas! Three stories to cover with anything you want. Like a matte painting. There’s a guy at ILM…”

I leave them chattering happily together about all the details.

*   *   *

At this point, the best option is sleep, but I dozed on the plane and now I’m restless, like something in my brain is still circling the runway, refusing to come in for a landing.

I find Clark Moffat (unburned and intact) on my own short shelves. I’m still making my way through the series again slowly, and now I’m on Volume II, near the end. I flop down on my bed and try to see it with new eyes. I mean: this book was written by a man who walked the same streets as me, who looked up at the same shadowed shelves. He joined the Unbroken Spine and he left the Unbroken Spine. What did he learn along the way?

I flip to where I left off.