My wife bundles our grown kids’ sets in Saran Wrap— A Wrinkle in Time, Eragon, Anne of Green Gables— to keep each book with its family. She bunches paper in box crevices, so odd-sized texts won’t slide, pulp pages won’t fold under hardback weight. I stay in the passenger seat when we reach GoodWill, look ahead at matching suede sofas, two bedside lamps by a dumpster for the unsalvageable. The guy wheels out a blue canvas container after we tell him the boxes in the back packed tight like a Tetris mosaic are full of books. Wait my wife calls—and I see her in the side mirror scramble to help him as he opens each box, lifts above his head and lets the contents tumble and strike at broken angles in a deep bin meant for dirty laundry. When my wife slides into the driver’s seat, receipt clutched in hand, she is weeping. I want to write about book banning, books I can no longer teach, books pulled by administration mid-read, but I’m a high school English teacher still drawing a salary. Coward, I will write a last will and testament for my books. Not a designation of who gets what, but how to gently pack them, how to place them into the hands of a girl, her feet against the heat vent, book propped open, its spine resting on her lap.