Now as I leave my room and shuffle into the living room, I see Midnight hasn't budged an inch from her spot on the couch. She's still nose-deep in a service manual, but not the '76 model year Chrysler one. That heaping tome is lying on the coffee table in front of the couch, underneath a general Chilton's manual from another particular year. Out of the three she had brought upstairs last night, Midnight is mere pages away from being finished with the last one.