Elara scanned it. She should have just stamped it "Returned" and shelved it. Instead, she opened it.
Dr. Vance held the leaf up to a loupe. Her hands trembled. "Where did you get this?"
Over the next week, things changed. She saw the world in Phaidon plates. The way the afternoon sun slashed across the floor of the library was a Hopper. The rust on a bicycle rack was a Rauschenberg. The quiet sorrow in a homeless man’s face was a late Rembrandt self-portrait. She began to sketch on the margins of overdue notices.