The Lesson Plans

Margaret arrived at the college library on Friday at noon with a canvas grocery bag. She put it on the circulation desk, in front of Grace, as if it contained something alive.

"Thirty years," she said. "Don't lose them. Don't spill coffee on them. And for heaven's sake, don't tell him I brought them. He thinks they're private."

Inside the bag there were six notebooks. Thick, black, with soft corners and elastic bands. Each one had a year range on the cover in Frank's square handwriting: 1995–2000. 2000–2006. 2006–2012. 2012–2019. 2019–2023. And the last one, newer, with a coffee ring on the cover: TUESDAYS — 2023–.

"He's sleeping a lot," said Margaret. "The medication. When he's awake, he asks about the class. I tell him it's fine." She looked at Grace. "Make it fine."

Then she left, very quickly, before Grace could thank her.