The desk that lay in front of Byron was full of scrolls and papers and books.  He sat leaning forward over the mahogany, scribbling away on blank pages.  In between columns and columns of books in front of him, floated still and stuffy air.  Rays of light pierced through the few windows, and candles lit the back part of the large room.  A few scholars and professors sat alone reading at small tables, and one woman paced the rows, looking for a source of new cooking recipes for her husband and children to enjoy.<br/><br/>Just a block away, a college was in need of new biology text, and it was Byron's main job to make new copies.  Over the past two years, he had become an accomplished scribe, not to mention slightly knowledgeable of many subjects.  His most notable talent, according to his employer Sir Bradley, was his ability to remember and recite the exact location of every book in the building.<span style="font-style: italic">"I don't know how you do it,"</span>Bradley once mentioned,<span style="font-style: italic">"when you spend so little time here and so much time running around town.  If it weren't for your proficiency, Sir Galant, I would be too suspicious of your other activities to allow you to work here anymore."</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"It's only a trick of memory,"</span>Byron responded, feeling admonished.<span style="font-style: italic">"People find it hard to recall things because they're too busy thinking of something else."</span><br/><br/>It was also Byron's other job to make sure only one book was taken by a single person at a time.  Because everything was handwritten, the sheer value of three hundred pages was worth fighting for.  Feeling the soreness in his right hand was enough to remind the young adult of this.<br/><br/>Shaking his hand to relieve tension, Byron decided to give his eyes a break as well; he glanced around, mentally noting the three customers and the books they were reading.  He looked to one of the open windows in an effort to gauge the time with the sun, but gave up quickly.  Tauntingly, the breeze brushed Byron's cheek as rays of sunshine heated the air in the room.  Something didn't feel right today.  Although he couldn't put his finger on it, he wanted nothing more than to visit the nearby swamp, to be outside and running.  He was definitely grateful for this job, but the work was as monotonous as the hand cramps were painful.  Sometimes the need to be outside was intense, but it was never as bad as it was today.<br/><br/>"Hey there, buddy.  You're good to go if you're done daydreaming."<br/><br/>The scribe almost jumped from his seat behind the desk; he was still shaking his hand around while his partner, Jake,  walked right in front of him.<br/><br/>"I see you're working on the biology text still... is it coming along fine?"  Jake asked.<br/><br/>"Sure, sure.  I haven't made any mistakes yet, and I'm already on the second one of the week."  Byron did a quick magic shuffle with the papers sprawled across the desk.  "Here.  I've gotten it all out of the way for you," he spoke softly to Jake.<br/><br/>"Yeah, thanks.  Have a good weekend."<br/><br/>Throwing his purple coat on, Byron waved to his friend and walked out into the sunlight.  He spent what money he had in his pocket for a petite loaf of bread, and began his trek to the Southern swamp.  More than the need for fresh air was drawing him there, but he couldn't tell what.