"Sir," he said. "This is the boy who collapsed on the steps last month. Says he wants to talk to you about… labour exchange."
There was a brief silence while the man behind the desk took us in.
R. Rao was perhaps in his late fifties. His hair was more silver than black, combed back with the stubbornness. His skin was the particular shade of brown that turned to leather in the sun. Lines radiated from the corners of his eyes—not from frowning, but from squinting at text for decades.
Half his desk was occupied by a teetering pile of returned books. The other half occupied by two cups and a single framed photograph turned face-down.
His gaze did the same slow, methodical sweep the old man in the Voyage car had done: face, clothes, posture.
"Come in," he said. "Both of you."
We stepped inside. The guard closed the door behind us.
"So," Rao said, eyes on me. "You have a proposal, it seems."
I took a breath. Frame. Hold. Release.
"My name is Arin Valen," I said. "Local resident. Thirteen."
"So the card says," Rao replied.
"I want to sit for the Institute written examination," I continued. "General Track."
One of his eyebrows twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Ambitious," he said mildly.
"I've been studying," I said. "For a month. Intensively. My mother bought me the Institute of Interworld Studies General Track Foundation Practice Compendium, second edition. I've gone through it twice, solved all available practice questions, corrected my errors. I've made my own notes."
Rao's gaze sharpened.
"You have the book with you?" he asked.
I nodded and carefully slid the compendium from my cloth bag. The cover was more creased than when Ma had brought it home; the tape on the spine had been reinforced with another strip. Color-coded slips of paper stuck out from the sides like flags.
I placed it on his desk.
He opened it, flipped through the pages with the casual familiarity of someone who knew its contents by smell. His fingers paused on the margins, where my cramped handwriting filled every available blank space.
"You redid the aptitude section." he murmured while scanning
"Yes," I said. "My first scores were weak on pattern recognition and time management. I adjusted."
Rao closed the book and tapped the cover.
"You understand," he said slowly, "that this is only a foundation, The real exam will not be so forgiving."
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm here. I can't afford coaching centers. I can't afford the entry fee for terminal access more than once a month, What I can do is work."
I glanced around the office. Even in here, books sat in untidy stacks, on the floor, on the windowsill, on a chair that had clearly not seen an actual human occupant in years.
"I'm not strong enough to move crates," I said bluntly. "You can see that. But I can clean tables. I can wipe terminals. I can shelve books left on reading desks. I know how to follow a catalogue. I've spent most of my life in front of books—or wanting to."
Rao leaned back in his chair, studying me. The guard shifted his weight near the door, the leather of his belt creaking softly.
"In exchange," I said, "I'm asking for access. Not money. Just the right to sit in a corner and read. If possible… paper and pens. Scrap would do."
[You want to be paid in stationary?] the Archive said. [You have hit a new economic low.]
Rao drummed his fingers once on the desk.
"You fainted on my steps," he said. "The last time you came here without the fee."
"Yes," I said. "That was… poorly planned."
"Your body is not designed for labour," he observed.
"I'm aware," I said. "That's why I've been working on that too."
Rao's eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain."
I hesitated. The Null Frame wasn't something I was advertising to strangers.
I chose my words carefully.
"My lungs were worse," I said. "A month ago. Walking from our room to the bridge was enough to almost kill me. Since then, I've been… training. Carefully. Breathing exercises. Structural support. My condition is still bad. But it's better than it was."
Rao considered that in silence.
"How many hours do you think you can work without collapsing?" he asked finally.
"Three," I said. "With breaks. Light work."
The Archive flashed a disapproving warning icon, but said nothing.
"And how many hours do you expect to study?" Rao asked.
"As many as you'll let me," I said honestly. "I don't have time to waste. The exam is in six months and three weeks."
The guard made a soft, incredulous noise.
Rao heard it and ignored it.
"Sit," he said.
I perched on the chair opposite his desk, pulling my bag close to my feet.
Rao looked at the guard.
"You can go," he said. "I'll page you if I need you."
"Sir, if he—"
"I am capable of calling for a medic if something happens to him," Rao said calmly. "Go and guard the door from the ravages of unsupervised ten year olds."
The guard's mouth twitched. He gave me a last measuring look, then left, closing the door properly this time.
Rao turned back to me.
"Arin," he said. "There is no official labour exchange program in this library. You understand that."
My chest tightened.
"Yes," I said quietly.
"That means," he went on, "that if I agree to your proposal, it will be… informal. Subject to my mood. My assessment. My patience."
"I understand," I said.
One corner of his mouth curved.
"I cannot give you a salary," he said. "If I do it for you, fifty others will appear at this gate with stories worse than yours. And my budget does not stretch far enough to properly pay even the staff I already have."
"I'm not asking for money," I said quickly.
"No," he said. "You are asking for something more valuable."
He tapped the compendium again.
"Books," he said. "Time, Space, Quietude."
He took a breath.
"Here is what I can offer," he said. "You come Five days a week. Morning or afternoon, I don't care which, but you will tell me your schedule and stick to it. Each shift, you will spend the first two hours cleaning reading tables, collecting abandoned books, and returning them to their proper sections. You will do this properly. If I find a book out of place, I will know exactly who to blame."
"Yes," I said. My fingers had curled into fists on my knees. I forced them to relax.
"In return," he continued, "you may stay for studying until closing, if your body permits. You will have access to general-tier stacks. No restricted archives. No backroom collections. I will arrange for scrap paper and usable pens from surplus. You will not, under any circumstances, charge anyone for your 'help' or pretend to be staff. If a visitor asks you a question, you direct them to the front desk."
"That's… more than fair," I said.
"You will also," he said, voice flattening, "not die in my library. I do not have the energy to argue with doctors and inspectors and your mother. If you feel dizzy, short of breath, or anything that suggests your lungs are attempting rebellion, you will sit down immediately and inform the nearest adult that you are about to cause trouble."
The Archive underlined that line three times.
"Agreed," I said.
Rao watched me a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Good," he said. "We understand one another."
He extended his hand across the desk.
I stared at it for half a second, then reached out and shook it. His grip was dry, firm, the kind you got from decades of lifting hardcovers and paperbacks instead of weights.
"Welcome to City Central Public Library, provisional… what shall we call you?" he mused. "Junior attendant? Apprentice? Table-wiper-in-chief?"
[Unpaid Academic Laborer ] the Archive suggested.
"Volunteer," I said. The word felt strange and right at the same time. "I'll be a volunteer."
"Very well," Rao said. "Volunteer it is."
He released my hand and leaned back.
"Go to the front desk," he said. "Tell Megha I've given you permission. She'll show you the cleaning supplies and explain the shelving system. Do not breathe on the rare manuscripts."
"I won't," I said, standing carefully. My knees held. The frame around my lung hummed quietly, an invisible brace.
"Arin," Rao added as I reached the door.
I turned.
He picked up the compendium again, weighed it in his hand.
"You finished this in a month," he said. It wasn't quite a question.
"Yes."
He turned it over, then set it down beside his terminal.
"Leave it," he said. "I'll keep it here. Less to carry. And if I find any suitable papers, I may… add them."
My throat tightened.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me yet," he replied. "Pass the exam. Then we'll talk."
At the front desk, Megha raised an eyebrow when I relayed Rao's instructions, but a quick message on her terminal confirmed it. She handed me a rag, a spray bottle that smelled faintly of citrus and questionable decisions, and a plastic tub on wheels for abandoned books.
"Tables first," she said briskly. "Start with Reading Hall A. Wipe, clear, sort into the tub. Don't try to shelve yet; you'll only mess it up. When the tub is full, bring it back here and I'll show you the labels."
"Got it," I said.
The Archive let out a long, theatrical sigh.
[Congratulations,] it said. [You have acquired a new role.]
A system tag flickered briefly in the corner of my vision:
[Role Unlocked: Library Volunteer (Unpaid Laborer)
Perks: Access to knowledge, minimal respect, cleaning-related muscle development.]
I smiled.
Inhale. Frame. Eleven seconds of borrowed structure wrapped my failing lung.
Exhale. Release. Another frame already rising to take its place.
I pushed the tub toward Reading Hall A, the wheels squeaking a rhythm that my breath matched instinctively.
Two exams, I thought. One with question papers and answer keys. One with dust, tables, and the slow rearrangement of my own body.
For the first time in either life, I felt like I had, if not an advantage, then at least a foothold.
Let's get to work.