Finals week—that banquet of anxieties—has come and gone on the campus of Sacramento State. The library is relatively quiet now, especially on a Friday evening. Students are either heading home for the summer break, recuperating in their dorm rooms or apartments after a long semester, or out on the town enjoying themselves. Leaving the librarians, like Thomas, to do their rounds at their leisure.

The Mole-Man relishes the hush that's settled over the building. The way the university only keeps half the lights lit on the upper floors where activity has come to a standstill. Most of all, he loves the solitude. Drained of the excitement and stupidity of youth, the library is now only a storage space for books. And books don’t make silly or inarticulate demands, nor do they flaunt their happiness, their wretched potential and promise. They simply wait for their readers. Silently, patiently, humbly.

Still, the library is not completely deserted by the matriculating masses. Some remain. And Thomas knows that, among them, there are more than a few who have witnessed the bud of anxiety flower into a bouquet of fears. They sit alone or in pairs throughout the common areas, rubbing their worries together about grades, about telling their parents they’ve failed some course, about losing scholarships.

And so, at 6:45pm, despite his resentment of these well-formed and well-adjusted creatures, Thomas emerges from the stacks and takes his sweet time walking among them, moving from person to person, from group to group, muttering: “The library closes in 15 minutes.” Less like a mole and more like a bee or a butterfly, lazily floating between blooms to collect his fill of nectar.

Always, he waits for a moment at a little remove before interrupting the speech or thoughts of these fearful children, as if afraid to approach. Relishing the mundane, but potent, terror they feel in the face of an uncertain future. Cherishing the little bits of tremulous conversation he is privy to before they notice he’s there:

“…I don’t know what I’m gonna do, they’re gonna kill me…”

“...I have to make a C. If not, I’m…”

“…I had no fucking clue, dude…”

“…my mom is going to be so pissed…”

And when they do see the odd little man waiting to speak to them, it’s slightly easier to handle the dismissive look in their eyes, the silent mockery, the disgust. Because he’s tasted their fear, their unease, their disquiet. He’s privy to their secret apprehensions, the dread that pours out of them.

Thomas knows that they are weak. Afraid. Terminally alone. Just as he is.

And he hopes, dearly hopes, that they all fail.