. . .

I grew up on those books

I grew up on those books. The ones over there, that third shelf, second row down. See that empty space between Harriet Truman's _The Final Cage_ and Claude Monet's _Quick!_? That's where my mother used to change me. She used newspaper, before my father tracked down the clothmaking operation. Did you hear about them? They've figured out a way to make a reasonable cloth substitute somehow. They might just be ripping the covers off hardbacks, but they're damn good at it, whatever they do. Got all of my clothes from them over the years.

We never know about you shorttimers. Most of you don't last. Some crack as soon as they figure out they can't get back. Some crack later, when the reality of that sinks in. Some get eaten. We'll stop calling you shorttimer if you last the year. Not me. Like I say, I was born here.

My father was a librarian from Ohio. Lots of those. My mother was actually someone he had known from before, someone who was in a class with him once, so when they met here, well, that's a strong bond. She had been here longer, got lost in the college library, she showed him the ropes. Still, eventually, the both of them decided they were gonna find their way out or die trying. I told them I'd be here for them when they came back, but they never did. I like to think that they found the way out, but...

Done plenty of exploring. You've got to. Food's scarce. Been plenty of times I've survived on nothing but drinking fountain water for days. Best way is to have some skill to trade to the hunters. That way you don't have to go hunting yourself. That's real dangerous. It can be done, but it takes skill as well as strength and more luck than either.