Last-Night sits alone in her carved-from-the-earth bedroom deep within a hidden valley, reciting her book: Last Night at the Telegraph Club, whispering something about palms being damp and glancing over one’s shoulder. She had been assigned Malinda Lo’s novel when the newest regime demolished the final secret library that contained books banished from the government-approved curriculum. Last-Night had been six when assigned and it was explained to her that she had become the book’s guardian and that the others within the underground repository, whom she’ll minimally interact with, will only refer to her as Last-Night.

Last-Night had just turned twenty nine according to the book’s publication date, which she assumed as her birthday, eight years ago. And which the librarians and her parents had advised her to do: “You’re now Last Night at the Telegraph Club,” her mother had said, “we don’t want you to get confused.”

“I don’t want to,” Last-Night had said when first told of her new privilege.

“It’s the greatest of honors,” her father stated. “You’re now a Living Page. And because of you, the world will never forget.”

Last-Night had stared into her father’s excited eyes, tears welling. She glanced at her mother, who beamed at her, tears having already streamed. That evening, Last-Night had also given up her birth name: Luisita.

Last-Night continues reciting her words, giddy with anticipation for The Unburning. It’s Wednesday night. It’s the night when all the Living Pages gather within the Recitation Room to listen to snippets of stories. Tonight she will hear All Boys Aren’t Blue, And Tango Makes Three, The Color Purple and a few more. Last-Night likes ogling the hundreds of other Living Pages – young and old, able and other – and trying to count – eleven last time – how many new kids have been bestowed with this important obligation. The previous Wednesday, Last-Night fell in love with Mockingbird’s smooth timbre and cried when U-Give told of the death of Khalil, and how 84 makes such a bleak story so brilliant. She has yet to Unburn, but she knows her time will come, and she is ready for that Wednesday.

After some time and after having recited something that seemed like a recipe – glutinous rice, laap che’ung, mushrooms – The Unburning chimes sound. Last-Night smiles and rushes into the passageway. She recognizes Alaska, Wallflower, Crank, and Sold. She waves to Kite and Tricks and looks away from George and Pet, who are wasting words as they whisper to each other. Last-Night weaves and bobs and walks on tippy toes until she is ushered to her assigned seat within the cavernous room by one of the Librarians of the Burned.

“It’s such a delight to see you all,” a librarian says. “Please give yourselves a round of applause.”

Claps echo throughout the space.

“We have a lot of new Living Pages with us tonight,” the librarian continues, “so we’ve decided to change the way we select reciters. We are going to allow for volunteers.”

Murmurs ebb and flow throughout the Living Pages. Last-Night searches the room, looking for answers for this sudden change.

“I know this is different, but there are many of you who’ve been here for years,” the librarian scans the room, “and have not said a word aloud. Therefore, we want volunteers.” The librarian again scans the room.

Last-Night and everyone else in the Recitation Room begins surveying the Living Pages. A hand from across the room shoots into the air, then another, and another, and before she can stop herself Last-Night is standing with her arm straight above her head. A thunderous ovation erupts, misspent words fill the air – I’ll do it; me, me, me; is this real – moments before a metallic shriek blares throughout the passageways.

“It’s the alarm,” a librarian shouts. “Run.”

“What’s happening?” Jazz screams.

Last-Night watches as Anne Frank hides under a bench, as Speak yanks Kitty from the dirt floor, and as librarians herd Living Pages in every direction.

“It’s soldiers,” another librarian shouts. “They’re coming for you.”

Goosebumps and Persepolis clasp each other, crying. A gaggle of Living Pages huddles near an entrance. Last-Night stands frozen. She cannot make herself move. Then, Monster walks to her side. They look at each other then stare at the oncoming beams of flashlights and listen to the hollow and heavy cracks of combat boots stomping their way.

“What do we do?” Last-Night says.

“I don’t know,” Monster replies.

Before Last-Night can say another word, barked orders and pointed machine guns demand hands raised and mouths shut. Chaos transforms into stillness and hush. Living Pages look at librarians for help while soldiers block doors.

“Francis was in China during the war too,” Last-Night says. She begins reciting her book.

“What are you doing?” Monster asks.

Last-Night looks at Monster, back at the soldiers. She continues telling her story. Monster notices a soldier coming for Last-Night. He stands closer to her.

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Zinzi,” Monster joins in.

“Shut your mouths,” the soldier yells.

A soldier strikes Clockwork with the butt of his gun when she shouts, “Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well.”

Awakening, Glass, Skippyjon all start reciting their words. Then Uncle Bobby, Bamboo, Princess Boy and others render their voices. The room floods with words and lines and passages from Maya Angelou, Orson Scott Card, Vladimir Nabokov, Lois Lowry and all the other volumes living in the Library of the Burned.

A soldier shouts, “What do we do?”

Military personnel scan the room for a directive, a command, something. Some hold their weapons tighter against their shoulders. Others sweep the room looking for sudden movements, hidden weapons, a reason to depress their itchy trigger finger. 

The tangle of voices no longer yell their stories. Instead, there’s thousands of whispers cascading from hundreds of mouths, overwhelming the confused platoon. Even after the soldiers have gone, the Living Pages continue to tell their story, unsure if they’ll ever have the chance to speak again.

– James Morena