I walked in to find him reading a leatherbound book with gold leafed pages. He hadn’t seen me enter, but as soon as he realised I was in the room he gingerly placed a bookmark into the page he was reading, closed it, and set it down on the coffee table.

“Sorry,” he said. “Whenever I feel troubled I usually find myself turning to the good book for comfort.”

I looked at the cover. ”’The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’?”

“Well it is a very good book,” he smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” he said, taking off his reading glasses.

“No.”

“So why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed, sitting down. “Something feels wrong. Can’t quite put my finger on what.”

“I think you can,” he said as he cleaned his glasses. “And I think you don’t want to tell me because then you’d have to say it out loud. You’d be admitting it to yourself.”

“So,” I said, leaning forward. “What should I do?”

He thought on this for a moment, and then said, “Would you like to borrow my book?”