Page 32 of Hiss and Tell
Watching Milo circulate through the room, showing his fossils to anyone who’ll look and fielding questions about dinosaur behavior with growing confidence, I realize Dave is wrong about one thing.
I’m the lucky one.
Chapter Nineteen
Sebastian
We’re riding high from the father-son breakfast success when everything falls apart at once.
I’m back at the library shortly after 10 AM, energized from watching Milo’s confidence bloom during his presentation. The morning felt like a perfect example of what’s possible when children have reliable adults in their corner—exactly the kind of story I want to tell the city council about why our programs matter.
That’s when I discover the children’s computer terminal has died overnight.
The screen shows nothing but a blue error message before going completely black. All my attendance records, program statistics,and community impact data—everything I need for tomorrow’s budget presentation to the city council—is trapped inside a corrupted hard drive.
“No, no, no.” I frantically press keys, hoping for a miracle, but nothing happens. My snakes writhe with anxiety as all the confidence from this morning evaporates.
Mrs. Randall appears at my desk with her clipboard and that particular expression that means trouble. “Technical difficulties, Mr. Fangborn? How unfortunate, especially with your presentation tomorrow.”
“Just a minor glitch,” I manage, though my sanctuary effect is struggling to maintain calm while I’m anything but.
“I do hope this won’t impact your ability to demonstrate the value of children’s programming. The city council values preparedness and professionalism.”
After she leaves, I stare at the dead computer screen, panic rising in my chest. Without those statistics, my presentation will be nothing but empty promises. The board is already looking for reasons to cut children’s programming, and this hands them the perfect excuse.
My phone buzzes with a text from Aspen:How did everything go?
Before I can respond, Jenny appears at my desk with her tablet and an expression that means more bad news.
“Sebastian, I just got a call from the city manager. They’ve moved up all budget presentations to this afternoon due to an emergency council session tomorrow about the water main repairs.”
My coffee cup hits the desk with a clink. “This afternoon? But the presentation was scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“Three o’clock sharp. And Sebastian?” Her expression grows more serious. “Mrs. Randall and two other board members plan to attend ‘to provide input on library priorities.’”
After Jenny leaves, I sit in stunned silence. I look at the clock. 10:30. Four and a half hours to recover my data, rebuild my presentation, and somehow convince the city council that children’s programming deserves funding. All while processing the emotional high of this morning’s success with Milo and the growing weight of what failure means for all of us.
I text Aspen back:Computer crashed with all my presentation data. Budget meeting moved to 3 PM today. Small crisis.
Her response comes immediately:On my way.
You don’t have to, I start to text back, then delete it. She’s already proven she shows up when needed. The least I can do is let her.
Twenty minutes later, Aspen arrives with her laptop bag and a determined expression. “It’s my day off from my two jobs. My online obligations can wait until later, and I asked Miss Lee if Milo could stay late at Little Dragons this afternoon,” shesays, settling at my desk. “Miss Lee said they’re working on art projects, so he’s happily occupied.”
Aspen sets her laptop on my desk and starts connecting cables to the crashed terminal. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
I explain about the system crash, the lost data, and the moved timeline. As I talk, Aspen nods thoughtfully, her fingers already flying over diagnostic programs.
“The hard drive isn’t completely corrupted,” she says after twenty minutes. “Just the file allocation table. I can recover most of your data, but it’ll take a few hours.”
Relief floods through me so powerfully that my sanctuary effect pulses, making several patrons look up from where they’re going through the stacks.
“There,” she says after two nerve-wracking hours. She pulls up the recovered files and announces, “Attendance records, parent feedback, program evaluations—it’s all here.”
“How can I ever thank you?”
“You already did. This morning. With Milo.” Her voice is soft. “You showed up when he needed you most. This is me returning the favor.”
