“You here for that wizard boy book?”
Two teenage girls in black T-shirts and colorful scarves nodded and did little else.
“Great,” the middle-aged man muttered as he settled in behind the pair.
The last spot was his. A dubious distinction.
Seconds later he craned his neck to gauge the line length. It went down four street blocks and wrapped around the corner. An hour at least. Maybe even two. All for a kid’s book.
Worst part, his own teenager was clear. If he didn’t come home with a copy of that book, don’t come home at all.
Fingers crossed.
The Weekday One Hundred 