POV: Clara

The library was still wrecked when morning came.

I’d cleaned until my palms ached and my shoulders screamed, pushing carts through toppled shelves, stacking books like sandbags, blotting at bloodstains that wouldn’t lift. The children’s wing was at least passable now, but every corner still whispered of violence. The rug still had dark patches. A shelf was crooked where claws had caught it. The puppet stage was gaping, split down the middle.

Eventually ...