text: Dragons are neither mythical nor magical. Merely rare. When humans think of us, many things leap to their minds. Many of those things are untrue. Others are not. We do, for example, have a tendency to hoard treasure, but what constitutes treasure to a dragon is individual. I’ve never met one of my kind who actually hoards gold, though some do, I’m sure. I, myself, hoard books. Most dragons would frown on me for collecting objects of human origin. Most dragons would frown on me for making my lair in a human structure. But my predilection for their writings necessitates proximity to those who would harm me. I am careful not to be seen by humans and I feel no need to defend my treasure of choice. Some of them tell wonderful tales. I stretched out on the platform of the abandoned subway station in which I live, enjoying my third attempt at understanding more than seventy percent of *Blood Meridian* by Cormac McCarthy when a noise broke my attention away from the pages. An old man lay collapsed between the disused rails of my entrance tunnel. A Niagara of lank, filthy hair poured out from under his Yankees baseball cap. His clothes were ripped and dirty. A bottle in a brown paper sack he had been clutching nestled beside him. I snaked my head between the support columns lining the platform to get a closer look at him. He looked unwell. One of the thousands of “tempest-tost” to whom this city promised illusory refuge. I suppose he must have drunkenly wandered his way into my lair, likely unknowing of his own actions. No human sound of mind would walk the subway tunnels let alone chance upon the hidden entrance of my home. As I scrutinized his shallow breathing form, a well of unexpected pity opened within me. This pathetic creature posed no threat. It was clear he led a life as lonely as my own, though for him it was not by choice. I folded my wings close to my body and moved closer. I grasped his limp frame, careful not to graze him with my talons as I lifted. I lowered him to the concrete station floor amidst my mountains of books and his glassy eyes cracked open. He looked up at me, swimming in delirium, for a moment before his eyes closed again. I found a blanket and laid it over his huddled curling body. He swooned in and out of consciousness. I have read that for humans, extreme abuse of alcohol can sometimes produce hallucinations. I believe he must have thought I was one such delusion. Late into the night, he began to shake and quiver beneath the blanket. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I crouched over the sickly man. “I wish I could help you,” I said. His agitated trembling seemed to be growing worse. “I wish I knew what to do.” His eyes were open but glazed in feverish half-sight. He curled a fistful of blanket to his face and muttered. I lowered my head closer. “What did you say?” I asked. Sour tears crept along the furrows of his nose peaking above the blanket. “Said ‘m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry for what? You’re not...” I trailed off. He didn’t seem to be speaking to me. “’M sorry, mom...’m so sorry...didn’t mean t’be like this.” “It...it’s OK, son,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. “...It’s OK, sweetheart.” I smoothed some of his greasy hair along his cheek with a talon, uncertain if this would bring any sort of comfort. Perhaps my voice sounded like his mother’s, I reasoned. His glossy eyes focused momentarily on the heaping tomes stacked all around us. “Will...will you read t’me?” he whispered. “Like you used to?” “Of course, dear...what would you like me to read?” “Th’one you always read...when I was sick...Th’chocolate factory.” There could only be one book to which he was referring. I weaved my head and neck between the towers of leather and paper until I found *Charlie and the Chocolate Factory* by Roald Dahl. I carefully slid it out from the pile with my teeth and returned to the man. I transferred the book to my claws and opened it, laying my head down beside him. “*These two very old people...*” I began. His bearing relaxed visibly but his tremors aggressed. I read. I did voices for each character. I turned the book to show him the illustrations, though I’m uncertain if he really saw them. He quaked. He listened. He thanked. He apologized to his mother. To me. I voiced Charlie on the final page. “’*Please don’t be frightened,’ he said. ‘It’s quite safe. And we’re going to the most wonderful place in the world!’*” A few lines remained, but I stopped reading as the man’s movements broke my attention away from the pages. His eyes clenched shut and a few violent spasms later, he lay still.