Imagine Eve Baird going home after a long, hard day chasing after Librarians and fighting off gremlins and evil curses and whatnot. She’s tired and fulfilled, ready to put up her feet and unwind with a nice, cold beer.
So she opens the refrigerator, and the smile slides off her face when her eyes fall on the dozen or so Fanta stocked on the middle shelf.
Damn, she thinks. Damn you and your damn Fanta, Flynn.
Somehow, she had put him out of her mind for the last few hours. She hadn’t wondered where he was, what he was doing, or if she’d ever see him again. She hadn’t thought about why he’d left without so much as a “Goodbye, Guardian.”
If he had, I would’ve told him, “Come back alive, Librarian.”
She’s really not in the mood for beer, not anymore, so even though she’s empty-handed, she closes the door. She lingers in the kitchen, wondering if tonight will be the night she accepts that Flynn isn’t coming back, finally allowing herself to rid her fridge of that orange, carbonated scourge.
Feeling defeated, she trudges up the stairs to bed, uncertain if she wants to fall into a deep and restful sleep or to dream of Flynn Carson.
Come back alive, Librarian.