"Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I interrupted, furtively dashing the tears from my eyes.

"No, Jane," he returned: "what necessity is there to dwell on the past, when the present is so much surer, the future so much brighter?"

"None." I said.

"What?" Mr. Rochester asked confusedly. "I don't think that's what happens, um…" he started rummaging through his pockets, for a lack of anything else to do.

"Edward, I just thought that, well, I've been in this story since the 1800's, and I am tired of it!" He looked shocked, but I continued, and began to walk out the door. "I want to find a book where something important, something exciting happens, that's all."

With that, I left. It is difficult to describe what it's like to leave a book, but it takes concentration, there's a squeezing feeling, and the sensation of being immersed in cold water. This is the first time I've done it, or wanted to. It is deuced difficult!

After leaving, I found myself winded on the floor of a large building, between shelves of books. "This must be a library," I mutter to myself. Jane Eyre has fallen to the floor, so I replace it. It feels strange to, in a way; hold my own life in my hands. If I peeked, I wonder what I'd see! But I resist the temptation and leave it on the shelf.

I walk up to a desk; this must be where the librarian sits. I was right, there is a woman here. She looks up.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

"Hi. I'm Jane Eyre."

The librarian doesn't even seem surprised. "You ought to be in the B's, then. Bronte, right?" She points in the direction I had come from.

"No, you see, I left to go in some other book. To do something new, for a change," I explained.

The librarian sighed. "That never ends well, I can tell you. You're a character. You belong in your book."

"My mind is made up."

"I thought it might be." She hands me a piece of paper. "Try these, if you must. I won't let anyone check out your book until you're back in it."

"Thank you." I know I won't go back, but it's nice to know it's there if I want to. I glance at the paper, and then head off through the shelves.

After walking a bit, I look up. The sign above my head proclaims this section Fiction, De-Do. I walk between the shelves, searching for the first call number on the list. There! I eagerly pull it out and gaze at the cover.

David Copperfield. Flipping it over, I read the back, and scowl. I was looking for something different, new. This is the same as what I'd left. Stuffing the book back on the shelf, I promptly turn around and head, on a whim, to my right.

After walking for a while, I take a book from the shelf at random. This one isn't on her list, but I don't care. The cover reads Going Postal, in large golden letters. I open it, and take a breath, bracing myself for the leap.