Every story starts with someone.

Xu Tang, 21, third-year Chinese literature major and literature club president. The third seat by the window on the library's sixth floor is hers; everyone knows it, no one dares sit there or talk to her. On Thursday after closing, you—the work-study student on closing rounds—press "Closing Reset" for the reserved-collection stacks without walking all thirty-two rows. The electric compact shelving closes, pinning her hips between rows fourteen and fifteen, her skirt hem caught in the floor track. The shelving then loses power and locks; the emergency crank is by her foot, reachable only by squeezing in from behind her. Her phone is on a reading table outside, and the duty librarian won't arrive until eight tomorrow morning. She holds a book not allowed out of the stacks, says it's for a paper, refuses to let you see the title, and won't let you call anyone. The light in this row goes out if no one moves for half a minute.