“Nathanael Greene, Henry Knox, Anthony Waine,” I mumble under my breath as my feet gingerly step on the moss-covered tiles of the sidewalk. Their slightly grainy surfaces with countless impudent particles of dirt stare back at me, suffering under the footprints others have left. I’m sure the tiles don’t expect that I’ve assigned the names and memories of people to them, that never happens to a sidewalk. But I never pass a cemetery, so I guess the sidewalk will do.

I remember earlier this summer when I was walking down Washington Street, and I decided this was the perfect street to remember the army of the American Revolution. It started as just William Alexander, and then I was done with the list and free to run to wherever I was going, but the list has grown. I still do it every day, to the annoyance of Jack. I bend down, brushing the dead grass off so I can see the clean tiles. It smells like fresh dog sh*t, and the tiles don’t even matter that much, but the only person that matters here is the dead one, and I chose this tile for them. Darn. I have dog sh*t on my hands. I really need to wash my hands.

“Grass cannot cover up your image,” I whisper, more to the forgotten dead than the tiles. I get up and stand at attention, although not saluting because I know I will disgrace them if I do it wrong. They probably knew how to salute perfectly in their day. I slowly make my way over the sidewalk still murmuring, my head bent. My neck hurts a bit, but then again, it always has. That’s just something I have to deal with, and I have been getting better at it. It’s fascinating how similar the tiles are despite their minor differences, like a chip here, initials of a toddler there, a chalk heart drawn all over a third. That one has handprints painted all over it. I mean, I guess they didn’t know that it was William Moultrie, but it still doesn’t fit him. The other soldiers found him a disappointment, a coward. There’s a tiny container with blue paint in the corner of the tile for people to add their handprints, so I snap open the lid and pour it over my hand. I press my hand to the tile, resisting the urge to lovingly brush it. I mean, he still deserves some care and memory. I snap the lid shut, and on we go. Blue paint and dog sh*t, how much more can a hand handle? A lot, I guess. Their hands had to handle guns.

“Come on! We need to go faster than a snail, at least once in what, eleven years?” Jack pleads. Why does he have to talk while we walk? He bends down, getting in my face. His pale skin drops over his lanky frame, sharply contrasting his royal blue hair, which is constantly in his face. Maybe he puts it there on purpose to hide his intense grey eyes. He's never liked his eyes. Somehow, though, they always catch peoples’ attention. A few days ago, he started painting his nails green.

“Well we can’t now, can we? You distracted me from my order, and who knows what would happen if even just one tile lost its person!” I remark, exasperated. Now we have to jog all the way back to the start of the street, and I start again, “William Alexander, Nikola Tesla… Darn. Tesla’s not on this street. I have to start over again.” Tesla’s on Edison Avenue. All of them almost forgotten, all of them valuable nonetheless. I have a few of their biographies memorized, but definitely not enough. Jack starts talking about the one-day carnival with the biggest roller coaster in Illinois, probably to remind me of where we planned to go, but I tune him out. Why is the carnival important anyway? Can’t he see that all these dead people need someone to remember them?

We finally pass the library on the way to the park, just what I’m waiting for, and I stop abruptly. He stops a step behind me, watching to see if I will keep walking past the library. The immense marble facade gazes lovingly down at me, inviting me in. After one hundred thirty-seven tiles, here we are. Wait, aren’t we supposed to be going somewhere? I start up the great marble steps without thinking, grazing my hand over one of the four sturdy pillars and get to the protective oak doors. This is where I found that first book, spine almost broken off, about Thomas Edison’s assistants. Suddenly I am snapped out of my reverie.

“Why are you up there again? You said this time would be different.” Jack shouts up to me, his shoulders slumped, tapping his foot repeatedly, “I thought we agreed to go to the park. How are we going to get tickets? This park has had, like, a billion attractions and we’ve been to none because you’re too slow to get past the library.” His voice gets a bit sharper, but I’m sure he’ll get over it, he usually does. I only went up the steps from habit. I mean, we always come here. I bet I always step exactly where I’ve stepped before.

“Ok, I’ll tell you what, how about we just find two people. Then we can go to the park,” I start on our usual back-and-forth. Most of the time, it gets him to come up the steps after me, each step similar to a stomp, and by that time I’m already past the circulation desk and he can’t yell at me.

“Those people are so old, they never had stuff like the roller coaster. Now it’s like you want to live like them. Don’t you want to enjoy new stuff? Or– new-ish stuff? Like that coaster?” It’s weird, his voice starts to rise. He usually comes into the library with me by now. He huffs in exasperation at his hair to get it out of his vision.

I can see the park from here. The roller coaster is tall, he’s right about that. But how he make me go there? I struggle down one step, my foot shaking too much for me to get my other foot down. Didn’t John Laurens once say the best solution is the easiest? I stumble to the railing, resisting the tempting pull of the library. “I- I can’t abandon them!” I squeak out as I rush back up the steps and grab the comforting cold door handle, thumbing over all of its dents. I look back at Jack. His blue hair screams indifference to me. He spends time on something as vain as that? His green nails seem ready to pry me away.

“No,” he says, eerily calm now, “I am putting my foot down-”

“On the first step,” I sigh. My grip slightly loosens on the doorknob. I get ready to take Jack’s hand to pull him into the library, gesturing tentatively for him to get over here.

“I can’t do this. Why are you making me do this? Next thing you know, you’ll probably have me memorize your tile order. Books are just pieces of paper with ink. You know what else is paper? Tickets! You don’t seem to be rushing across the street to read the tickets!” his calm countenance erodes now, his hands waving all over the place, “You know what? Fine. Why do I even try to enjoy my life anyway? Somehow yours is always more important. But-”

  He paces up and down the stairs, but eventually, he gets to a high enough stair for me to reach him and carry him inside. “If this is what it takes, this is what I’ll do to get you in the library.”

As we reach the back corner with the precious antique book collection, my breath becomes labored, and my arms start to fail me. When I hastily set him down he bolts away, not even respecting the library rules. I graze my hands over the volumes on the old wooden shelves sagging under the weight. I pull one out and start reading. He has to read it with me, he can’t just run away.

He’s back, a book in his hands, but it has plastic around it and a bright cover. “Here. This is a new book. You are going to read this, and put that dusty, moldy book back on the shelf where it belongs,” he states.

“How about you put that book down on the table and read this with me,” I counter.

“No! I can’t- You- There are other people here, you know, you could at least talk to them. Or me. Instead of that book. Or you could come. Ride. The. Rollercoaster!” His fists are white and clenched around his icky new looking book, and he stretches out those last words.

“How do I know the others have the same cause as me? Really, you can’t just expect me to talk to them.” It’s getting harder to whisper, but I manage.

“Those people are dead!” Oh, they are so going to kick him out for his loudness right now. The cords in his neck are tense, “They are not coming back to life. You are living, but it’s like you’re not. It’s like you don’t have a life or even a personality. When you die, and you will, your cause will not be eternal, trust me, you won’t have enjoyed anything or even had a life at all!”

“Yes, I will have,” I blurt. I will have remembered the dead nobly.  All by myself. All by myself? I take a look around, so many decaying stories. How long until I join them? Locked away, unheard of. I had to be given a key to this section because nobody ever used it. But if I’m not around, who will be there to read these books and remember them? Wait. There are books.

“Th- There are books. The books stick around. Books don’t die. I will die, but the books won’t. There are stories in books. The stories stick around. The stories will stick around.” 

Jack is quiet, letting me think in my choppy sentences.

 I close the book. Mechanically, I put it back. It is safe on the shelf, I remind myself, it won’t be damaged on the shelf. He offers his hand for me to take, his demeanor softening and the hint of a smile approaching. I take his hand. We walk out, the door clanking shut behind us like a decrepit safe closing. I look up at the sun. It gazes down on me protectively. My head feels strangely free, not having to look down all the time. We start towards the crosswalk. I mention, “Do you think they’ll still have tickets for us?”