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Being a former librarian came with some benefits: a pension, free time, and the knowledge of where best to hide subversive materials in the local library. The two-storied, brick-and-stone building had hardly changed since my retirement several years prior, the beautiful neoclassical structure standing out against the modern office buildings and refurbished storefronts along Main Street. With two library books in my left paw and my purse slung over my other shoulder, I stepped out of my car and strolled across the packed parking lot. The number of vehicles made it clear that everyone was taking advantage of it being Saturday, and I began to silently wonder if it would be a better idea to wait until Monday. Calm down, Nancy, I mentally said to myself. You’re a brave fox. You do this all the time. You can do it again. My eyes narrowed on the entrance steps. It seemed like Mayor Gregory had gotten the funds to fix those wobbly stones since my previous visit. With each upward step, my wagging tail went still as I passed through the foyer and caught sight of one other change, only this one fouled my mood. It stood out like a sore thumb on the community bulletin board to my left, just below one of the newer cameras facing the doors. The poster read, “A reminder from the government: Beware the Devil’s advocates! If you suspect a family member, friend, or neighbor harbors sympathetic beliefs towards the nation’s enemies—both within and without—please inform the authorities.” The image below the text and an emergency hotline number displayed a red, white, and blue canine with harsh, judgmental eyes and a permanent frown. I managed to quickly hide my own frown from the Labrador security guard standing adjacent to the entrance. I didn’t bother saying hello or greeting him, knowing he wouldn’t reply or smile back. So, I went straight for the front desk and its receptionist, a bespectacled she-badger too busy typing on her computer to notice. It appeared new as well. The dread in my stomach continued to drip like a leaky faucet. “Lorraine, sweetie!” I greeted her, hiding my nervous constitution behind a vulpine smile. “I hope you aren’t working yourself too hard? Is Peter treating you well?” Lorraine glanced up from her flat screen and smiled back. “Mrs. O’Neal. Good morning to you too,” she said. “I’m not doing too bad. And Peter’s not working me too hard. How have you been?” “Oh, you know, the usual.” I shrugged, then stepped over to place the two books onto the counter. “I thought I’d return these before going to check out a few more. Can you be a dear and scan these back in for me while I have a look around?” Lorraine graciously took them. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll do it right away.” I nodded and let my fox tail wag. “Oh, thank you. See you soon!” Being old had its advantages. It made others think I immediately agreed with the regime, for one. It also allowed me to easily blend in with the usual library visitors, which had been swelling lately. Nobody suspected a thing when widowed vixen Nancy O’Neal roamed the upper and lower floors, browsing and idly flipping through books before putting them back in their proper places, whereas a young hoodlum in baggy clothing would stand out like graffiti on a brick wall. The only thing I struggled with during my biweekly visits was resisting the urge to scowl at the large flags draped on the walls, each one a mockery of liberty. Thankfully, decades of customer service allowed me to mask my traitorous thoughts. I easily went pretending the old flag still existed, the posters taped at the ends of every bookshelf encouraged reading and writing, and the interior walls where resident artists had drawn illustrated cubs reading challenged classics were not white voids. I imagined myself easily finding masterworks like The Outsiders, Fahrenheit 451, Howl and Other Poems, and didn’t need to keep copies of illegal books hidden in my basement. The mammals not working at computers or quietly reading at tables ignored me. They didn’t notice when I strolled through the teen section to pick up Pride and Prejudice and To Become a Goodwife, the latter an average small-town romance somehow lauded as the ‘ideal novel for teenaged readers’ by the Moral Committee. When I felt for certain nobody would pass by, and with the assurance that I’d memorized each blind spot of the security cameras, such as the very narrow corridor I stood in, I went to work. My right paw reached into my purse and retrieved a small pamphlet informing the reader about women’s rights in Canada as well as Europe. I slipped it deep within To Become a Goodwife before placing it back on the shelf, then did the same for copies of the equally saccharine On the Heartland Farm book series. Next, I ventured over to the history section and surveyed two state-approved textbooks ranging from pre-regime history to world history, placing tiny pamphlets containing leaked government information inside the former and small how-to leaflets inside the latter. The leaflets explained different ways to learn about undiscussed current events beyond the state-approved news network, and what was covered up on a regular basis. I never knew whether or not to be elated that I often replaced the taken pamphlets and leaflets with new ones, actively wondering between visits when someone would knock on my door. Or, more likely, burst through it with handguns drawn. I almost affirmed this belief when someone approached the corridor. Frightened but not revealing it, I pretended to browse downward to the shelf containing ancient history. I idly examined books about the Roman Empire while making subtle peeks, trying not to make myself obvious. A leopardess in her early thirties—clearly pregnant—checked out a pre-regime textbook containing leaflets about current events. She skimmed it, stopped at one page, and then took out a notepad. She wrote down something in it and then on the page of the textbook before swiftly placing the hardcover back in its place, pocketing the notebook in her purse. The leopardess wordlessly retreated, but not before detecting me and offering a hesitant nod in my direction. As soon as I felt certain nobody would notice, curiosity compelled me. I went for the same textbook and discovered a pencil-written note scrawled on the back of a left-behind leaflet, which read ‘thank you’. Reading it over and over again alleviated my worries. So, I wasn’t just doing all of this for naught. I wasn’t the only traitor living within town. Others like me and Robert still existed. Deep within a narrow corridor of the reference section, my tail wagged as I continued to circulate the illicit material hidden in my purse. Within a thesaurus, I placed drawings and photographs given to me in secret by my resistance contacts; they depicted various ways to make love. I wasn’t sure why they wished to disperse them compared to the other information, but I wasn’t one to complain. I distributed them anyway. There were the photos depicting love between men and women, but also others between two women and two men. One of the printed photos in particular depicted a pair of homosexual male foxes lying naked in bed, cuddling against each other with paws intertwined while smiling blissfully into empty space. They seemed so content, so happy as a couple. One of them resembled Robert, and my paw trembled as I placed it inside the thesaurus along with the others. Memories of my husband started coming to me in waves, from us meeting as teenagers to our wedding day to his teary-eyed confession of being bisexual to his elated relief when I accepted him for who he was and even encouraged him to be himself around me. I miss you every day, Robbie. Last, but not least, I went for one of the library Bibles, which sat on display in front of a section of empty tables at the building’s far end where not many people gathered. Not long before my retirement, the regime gave out several copies of the Bible to every library within the country—at least, the ones within states that were still under their strict control (and not in open revolt). These Bibles were specially designed with beautiful calligraphy and larger-than-usual font, the idea being that library visitors would read them communally. They did not consider that everyone in the nation was required by law to possess their own Bibles. Thus, not that many people examined a couple of the dozen or so copies too closely. Well, save for a select few aware of what lay between certain pages. The Song of Solomon held material about practicing safe sex. Leviticus held a miniscule booklet informing readers about LGBT rights in other counties. Matthew 19:12 and Isaiah 56:4 contained leaflets of foreign scientific journals detailing the truths and lies about transgenderism, plus anonymous accounts written by transgender mammals living beyond the country’s borders. Placing and replacing them with my own copies was usually all too easy, at least, until my most recent visit. Brand-new CCTV cameras were mounted on the walls, two of them pointed directly at the shelf of Bibles and the tables in front of them. I held zero doubts that it would be foolish to go ahead with circulating the booklets and leaflets, no matter how methodical I went about it. Besides, if the library had recently installed them, it would be foolish to go ahead without knowing all the blind spots ahead of time. Feeling defeated, I went in the other direction. The library remained awfully quiet, despite the throng of visitors still taking advantage of the weekend—or at least, the day before mandatory church service. There would be occasional hushed discussions, tapping on a keyboard, shuffling paper or a shifting chair. An unseen cub would giggle, or a conversation would grow too loud, only for somebody to shush them. None of it chipped at the serenity of walking between stocked shelves and their seemingly endless supply of reading materials. The outside world had become too loud, too chaotic, yet my old workplace stayed the same, even as the uprisings and losses of freedoms dragged on and on. I sure hope this place remains intact after all this nonsense is finally over, I thought grimly while navigating the reference section. And hopefully, it’ll happen in my lifetime, and before the mayor starts adding more security. Distributing will be completely impossible once there’s armored thugs swarming— “Ah!” A startled tiger in his late teens or early twenties bumped into me, causing me to drop my purse and his notebook in the process. “Oh! S-Sorry!” He chuffed in embarrassment, then clamped his maw shut. “I’m so, so, sorry. I was—no, wait!” Too late. I’d picked up the notebook and saw a few photographs peeking from behind the cover. I easily recognized one as the photograph of the red foxes. I saw it and he knew I’d seen it. My eyes widened as I finally noticed the color draining behind his stripes. “Dear, is this yours?” I asked an obvious question and received an obvious answer: terrified silence. He held his breath. The poor dear looked scared stiff, standing frozen in place, not knowing what to do or say, waiting for me to speak. Or storm off in aghast horror to report him. Instead, I swiftly shifted the photo further inside the notebook and handed it to him with the softest, most reassuring smile I could muster. “Here.” I motioned it to him. “It’s obviously yours, sonny.” He grabbed the notebook but taking it did not ease the young feline, his tail still curling tightly around his shaking legs. Glancing behind him and behind me, then left and right to make sure we were alone, I murmured to him, “You know, if you’re curious about how the rest of the world thinks of people like you, might I recommend looking at A Modern History of Europe by Oscar Baldwin? Okay?” I winked at the stunned tiger, then patted his shoulder. “Do take care of yourself, young man,” I told him. “And please, stay out of mischief.” I walked past the still feline and ventured over to the historical fiction section, deciding to check out a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. True, it wasn’t exactly the unblemished pre-regime version I used to enjoy reading during long hours behind the front desk, or back when I had first read it in university, but the essence of the epic story somehow remained intact. The censorious Moral Committee didn’t even edit out the subtle lesbian relationship between Eugénie Danglars and her ‘best friend’, Louise d'Armilly. After grabbing a copy, then deciding to return to the teen section to grab a copy of Pride and Prejudice, my mind briefly wandered to the past on my way to the checkout counter. I’d never known for certain, but I suspected one of my previous next-door neighbors was secretly transgender, or a crossdresser at the very least. Isaac Stevenson appeared to be like any other masculine hyena: he had a wife, two cubs that played on the street, and he always said a friendly hello to Robert and me when we spoke to each other. More than once, I caught a whiff of his wife’s perfume sprayed on his neck or caught sight of him looking enviously at me in a dress. One noteworthy clue, however, involved the time I spotted him at a boutique store purchasing a large muumuu that his wife never wore in public. One late autumn day, not long before the rising politicians of the incoming regime officially established their power, Robert told me that the entire Stevenson family packed up everything they could into their station wagon. He’d come across them in the process while on lunch break at the house. All that Isaac told him was that they were fleeing north into Canada. Not moving but fleeing. That was the hyena’s specific wording, Robert had claimed, and it would be the last time anybody on our street ever heard from the Stevenson family ever again. I liked to believe they made it safely across the Canadian border. Part of me wondered if, in another life, Robert and Isaac could have possibly found the courage to speak openly with each other about their secrets. Or maybe become mentors to the young tiger I’d encountered. “I’m ready, Lorraine,” I informed the relaxed she-badger, handing her my picked book copies. “If you see Arthur or Peter, do tell them I said hello. And thank Peter for finally convincing the mayor to fix the blasted front step.” “You got Arthur to thank for that,” Lorraine said, referring to one of her coworkers. She raised an eyebrow at one of the books. “Pride and Prejudice? Didn’t you check this out three times already, Mrs. O’Neal?” “No one compares to Mr. Darcy.” I giggled solemnly. “Except for Robert, bless his soul.” “And Monte Cristo?” “It takes me back to university,” I said, but didn’t add, “and life before all this.” “Tell me about it,” Lorraine chuckled. “Ever since the Old Internet went offline, it’s been freeing to read the classics without social media to distract you.” Something caught my eye as she finished scanning Monte Cristo. Beneath it and the copy of Pride and Prejudice, a third novel was discreetly placed beside Lorraine’s keyboard. I easily recognized it as being one of the library Bibles, with something subtly peeking from between one of the pages like a bookmark. Except it wasn’t a bookmark. Wait a minute, I realized, is that one of the…? My heart nearly seized and my vulpine smile faltered. Was I discovered? Would I suddenly be escorted into an unmarked van? Spend hours in a jail cell, then interrogated for days until I offered up names? I was about to speak when something else occurred. “You have a wonderful night later, okay, Mrs. O’Neal?” Lorraine said. Our eyes met, then broke away as the badger glanced down to the library Bible on her desk, then back to me. She winked so quickly, I wondered if it was just my imagination. “Have a blessed evening.” Relief flooded my veins. My tail uncurled as I released a long-held breath. “I keep telling you, dear, call me Nancy.” I chuckled softly as she handed me the books. “Alright then,” she answered, waving to me as another library visitor stepped up to the counter to set down a stack of books. “See you next time, Nancy.” “You too, sweetie.” I turned with a swish of my tail. “You too…” The Labrador security guard remained by the door. He didn’t follow me or acknowledge my presence. I scurried out of the library without giving him the chance to consider, only feeling safe once I passed by the front doors. Stepping out into the scrutinizing light of the sun, I glanced down at the pair of books in my paws and walked out towards the parking lot. I didn’t glimpse up at the top of the flagpole though. I avoided looking at patriotic billboards on the drive back to my house. They suggested that I ought to invest in the government-sanctioned Internet that would replace large chunks of the old one, while also reminding me to purchase emergency firewood in preparation for winter, or that I should only travel locally within my state to ration gasoline, food, and my car due to shortages. I turned off the radio when it started updating me about the ongoing status of California’s rebellion and clashes with ‘militant protesters’. I avoided all of it. I chose not to be angry about my shrinking pension fund, the dying power grid, or that I could no longer go on vacations outside the country. Rather, I gripped the steering wheel and focused on getting home to cook myself some dinner, then read for a while before going to sleep with the knowledge that I’d likely made a small difference. I thought of the pregnant leopardess and tiger in the reference section, how scared he looked, and hoped they would both find the strength like I did to keep moving forward. It would be easy to pretend that I was the only sane mammal left. The loneliness grew ever since Robert left me a widow without her partner-in-crime to continue the fight. It was too easy to pretend the materials dropped off on my doorstep in the middle of the night magically appeared from thin air and did not come from a nameless contact in one of countless resistance cells across the region. Maybe Lorraine can join me in the future, I wondered. That is, if she wishes to do more than just read what I provide. Perhaps for next time. It would certainly help to have another confidant that was on a first name basis with me. Not to mention help find new blind spots. Whenever I had the chance, I sometimes read the illicit and dangerous knowledge I distributed and occasionally listened to underground broadcasts from rebels thanks to the leaflet instructions. It soothed me to know that others existed. They did exist. They’d continue to exist, no matter how many wars were fought and dissenters vanished without a trace. People like me still existed, others like Robert, Isaac, the leopardess, the young tiger—and now Lorraine—still existed, despite how much those in power tried flaunting their might. We were never going away, but they would one day, however long it took to happen. As I pulled my car into my garage door and watched it descend in the rearview mirror, my tail wagged as I thought of Monte Cristo’s ending and the final word of advice that Edmond Dantès gave to Valentine and Morrel as he sailed off into the distance. “All wisdom is contained in these two words—'Wait and Hope’.”