My Cardboard Balcony

Dora’s book had been due four years ago, but she had never wanted to turn it back in to the county library. There it was, propped up in her tiny bookshelf, always clean and devoid of dust and grime. The binding was scotch-taped, as it had been when she had first picked it up when she was twelve yours old. But it was fine. It held well. This book had saved Dora’s life. She would not specify how, but she always reminded people of that, in case they ever forgot.