“Mija, what’s a romantasy?” “What it sounds like, Mom.” The woman and her daughter exited the university library as I entered it. Next week fall semester would commence, and in the grand lobby I couldn’t help but notice a swath of empty space previously occupied by a chandelier adorned with Texas cattle horns. It had been a mainstay, a landmark, an icon round these hallowed parts. They clearly discarded it following last spring’s incident: the librarian hanging himself using a lasso. He’d left a note that said that after twenty-three years, he was no longer able to support an institution that left bankrupt legions of graduates who quite simply were led on by objects as innocent-seeming as books. The part of his note that stuck out when I read it in the newspaper was quite simply, as if to insinuate he’d done all our hard thinking for us. I was hardly ruffled when I saw an opening for his position in the system. Innocent-seeming objects were left unshelved, and that task would fall on some busybody until the hole was filled. Cruel, but sensible. It was a human resources problem. When I brought this up with my wife—my conscience guilty for having lacked guilt—she assured me that my head, if not my heart, was in working order. “Should you feel more guilty? Yes. No. Maybe so. It’d be different if it were ten years ago. But now, we just know too much. Can you pass me the salt, please?” We agreed that there was solace in the librarian going out his way. Subjecting himself to free will. Setting the terms and conditions for the last leg of his journey he’d begun long ago with a stiff rope and a short but tremendous leap of faith. Our own worries, like whether we visited our folks enough, donated adequately to social justice, made the world safer for our children, or prayed to the right god, were limited, and to what and whom we devoted them should likewise remain limited.