The library is never really closed. A word with the night watchman, maybe offer him one of your smokes, and he lets nearly anyone in. Over time, this leads to a motley assortment of people who gather to read after dark. Those with day jobs, those who wanted to read the pornos, those who just wanted to avoid people, hiding in a corner with a book that crumbles to dust when you brush the pages too hard.
Karkat is one of these. He loves the aged books, the ones that have survived the decades, but the noise and abuse of those he passes on the street drives him away. Only after several people mention the library does he go, and he is nervous about the whole thing. Carrying a pack of cigarettes with him, he holds one unlit in the corner of his mouth, fingers drumming against his hip. The night watchman gives him a cursory glance and takes the cigarette he's offered, and the world of the library is opened to Karkat.
His days change. He sleeps late, staying in his rooms until nightfall, when he slips to the library and reads. Summer passes, the fine nights fading to crisp autumn, before at last dissolving into the snow covered streets of the bleak winter.
For weeks now, the papers have been screaming about the new movement sweeping the nation. The men—and occasionally woman—who fight for new rights, for open mindedness on a scale the country has never seen before. ANARCHISTS the headlines yell, with DESTRUCTION OF SOCIAL ORDER AND DECENCY printed in slightly smaller letters underneath. Normal people, good people, should have nothing to do with them. Karkat isn't sure if that includes him, but he keeps his head down, avoiding the piercing gazes of the dangerous people, who treat the night like it was their own personal domain.
All at once, it changes.
On his way to the library, to the damp smell of musty books, Karkat glances up. He isn't sure why he does at first—it's something he almost never does. He prefers to keep his head down, to stay out of trouble. The unlit cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, the taste of tobacco skating over his tongue. Finally, he sees what drew his attention. A group of the radicals, the free-thinkers, are standing around a fire contained in a rusted oil drum. The flames give them a surreal quality, almost like statues that someone brought to life.
"Got a light?" someone asks.
Karkat jumps in surprise. The speaker is taller than him, but rail thin, hair so blond it seems to glow in the firelight. He has a cigarette in his fingers, twitching a little as he waits for his fix. Unsure of what to do, Karkat just shakes his head and hurries on, disappearing into the library. He can't keep his mind on the book he's working on—an old western by the name of Wildfire. Every few words, the page blurs into an image of the young man holding his cigarette. There's no reason for that—he's just another anarchist, looking to get his nicotine fix. Nothing Karkat should worry about.
Finally, just as he's about to leave the library, the first light of false dawn staining the sky, he understands why he can't get the guy out of his mind. There must have been five or six guys around that oil can, and each one had a cigarette going, curls of white smoke mixing with the black that lifted off the fire.
Why didn't the guy just ask one of them for a light?
The question bothers Karkat as he walks home in the pre-dawn light, the time of day that belongs to no one but him. The Beats have returned home to sleep off a night of their radical thinking, and the decent people have yet to wake and dress themselves in ties and shiny shoes and walk to work. The only people who are out now are the addicts just coming down from a high and the prostitutes, looking for one last customer before the police come out to stop them.
Karkat is alone, the recluse who comes out of hiding only to see the light of dawn before everyone else, as if the sun rises just for him. Another day, another dream that only he can see.
Just one more nicotine fix.