Hard to Reach (Paperback)

Chapter One · Eli

The library at Cedar Hollow Middle smells like old paper and lemon cleaner—comforting, if you’re the type who likes to disappear between stacks. Afternoon sunlight slants through the windows, turning dust into gold as it drifts over battered tables and rows of books. I’m too tall for this place, too awkward, and I still feel like an imposter every time I walk these halls. But the router under the circulation desk doesn’t care about any of that. It just wants to work again.

The librarian—gray cardigan, pinched smile—nods as I approach.

“Mr. Halvorsen,” she whispers, like the name might break if she says it too loud. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. The network’s been down since lunch, and the kids can’t access their research databases.”

I nod, not bothering to correct her. In Cedar Hollow, anyone over twenty-five is “Mister” or “Miss,” even if you’ve fixed their computers a dozen times. Salt Point’s different. There, I’m just Eli. The Halvorsen brother who never quite left, never quite stayed.

“I’ll get it back up,” I say, sliding behind the desk. My toolkit hits the counter with a soft thud—canvas stained with printer ink from my morning gig at Salt Point Elementary. I unzip it, hands already moving. The router blinks at me from a nest of dust, amber light pulsing like a warning.

I drop to the floor, knees awkward in the cramped space, and get to work.

“Let’s see what’s wrong with you,” I mutter, flipping the device and tracing the cables. Talking to machines is a habit—words meant for plastic and wire, not people. Machines make sense. People don’t. People leave, or forget, or let things break for too long. Machines just want the right input.

I pull my laptop from my bag, tether it to the system, and start running diagnostics. Familiar commands flicker across the screen, my fingers moving before I even think. The library settles around me. Scrape of chairs, rustle of pages, the low hum of students pretending to study. It’s easy to lose myself in the rhythm—swap this cable, reset that port, check for updates.

When the doors swing open again, I almost don’t notice. But something makes me look up—maybe the sharp intake of breath, or the frustrated sigh that follows.

A girl with dark red hair slips into the library, backpack hanging from one shoulder, laptop already open in her hands as she walks. She moves with purpose toward the back corner, settling at a table partially hidden by the reference section.

I return to my work, but something about her captures my attention. Her focus, maybe. She’s eleven, maybe twelve, and she has an intensity in her posture as she hunches over her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Come on, come on,” I hear her mutter as she stares at her screen, frustration evident in the set of her shoulders. “Not again.”

Three more commands and a hard reset should fix the router. I glance again at the girl, watch as she taps aggressively at her trackpad, then slams it down with a muffled sound of frustration.

“Can’t believe this,” she grumbles, fingers drumming impatiently beside her trackpad. “Internet’s down again? Seriously? At the worst possible time...”

Her voice is tight. I tug at a twisted cable beneath the desk, curious despite myself about the drama unfolding in hushed whispers.

“They’re going to wipe us before we even load. Come on... connect! Stupid server!”

I finish my final commands, watch as the router’s lights switch from amber to steady green, then close my laptop. Standing, I crack my back and gather my tools, trying to look casual as I make my way toward her table.

“Should be better now,” I say, stopping a respectful distance away. “Give me thirty seconds and we’ll see a full bar.”

She looks up, startled, as if she hadn’t realized anyone was listening. Her eyes—gray-green and hauntingly familiar—narrow slightly as she takes me in. There’s a wariness there that seems too old for her face, an assessment happening behind those eyes that makes me feel suddenly self-conscious about the ink stains on my fingers and the worn edges of my flannel shirt.

“You fixed it?” she asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

I shrug, pushing my hair back from my forehead with one hand. “Router needed a reset and firmware update. Signal should be solid now.”

Without waiting for permission, I crouch beside her table and point to the network icon on her screen.

“Watch. It’ll jump in about—“ The bars climb from one to five in perfect sequence. “There. Full strength.”

She stares at the screen, then at me, surprise replacing suspicion. I notice small details now that I’m closer—a thin braided bracelet around her wrist, a slight furrow between her brows that eases as the connection stabilizes, the way she tucks her hair behind one ear in a gesture that triggers a strange sense of déjà vu.

“That’s... wow,” she says, genuinely impressed. “I was about to rage-quit. My team’s doing scrims tomorrow and I needed to practice.”

“What game?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Glitchframe Arena,” she says, watching my face carefully.

Instead, I nod. “Solid choice.”

Her expression shifts, surprise giving way to cautious interest. “You play?”

“Used to,” I admit. “Got into the beta a few years back. Haven’t had much time lately.”

I don’t add that my Friday nights are now spent drinking lukewarm beers with my brothers at the Rusty Anchor instead of raiding with online friends who slowly disappeared into marriages and careers and lives that moved forward while mine stayed still. This kid doesn’t need to know any of that.

She turns back to her screen, but there’s less tension in her shoulders now. “I’m trying to make competitive. My grandparents don’t really get it.”

Something about the way she says “grandparents” catches my attention—a slight hardening around the edges, like rocks beneath thin ice. Before I can respond, the network icon on her screen flickers, then steadies again, stronger than before.

“Back in business,” I say, straightening up and taking a step back, suddenly aware I’ve been hovering.

The girl looks up at me, really looks this time, and offers a small smile that transforms her serious face. “Thanks, Mr. Halvorsen.”

I wonder how she knows my name, then remember the small town reality—everyone knows everyone, or at least knows of them. Even when they’re trying to be invisible.

As I look at her, there’s something about her that feels familiar in a way I can’t quite place.

Before I can ask her name, a sharp voice cuts through the library’s quiet.

“Excuse me? The computer at the research station isn’t turning on at all.”

I turn to see one of the teachers—Ms. Randolph from the English department, if I remember correctly—standing at the circulation desk with an expression that suggests technology has personally offended her.

“Good as new,” I say to the girl, offering an awkward half-wave as I head back toward the front of the library, tool kit in hand.

As I walk away, I glance back once to see her already immersed in her game, shoulders relaxed, fingers dancing across the keyboard with a focus that feels like looking in a mirror.

I reach the circulation desk where Ms. Randolph stands tapping one manicured nail against the wooden surface, her patience clearly running thin.

“Monitor’s completely dead,” she says, gesturing toward the research station computer like it’s personally offended her. “I have fifteen book reports due tomorrow and the template is only accessible online.”

“Let me take a look,” I say, following her to the research station. The black screen stares back at us, lifeless and uncooperative. I reach behind the monitor, my fingers finding the power cable immediately—unplugged, as I suspected. I plug it back in and press the power button. The screen flickers to life, displaying the login page.

“Good as new,” I tell her, keeping my voice neutral, though I’m tempted to point out that checking the power connection is step one of any troubleshooting guide.

Ms. Randolph blinks at the screen, then at me. “That’s... it? That’s all it was?”

I nod, already backing away. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the right one.”

She mumbles a thank you as I retreat, my attention already drifting back to the red-haired girl in the corner. Her face is lit by her screen, the blue glow catching in her eyes as she leans forward, completely absorbed. Something about her profile nags at me—a half-remembered shape, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue.

I meander back toward my toolkit on the circulation desk, taking a circuitous route that happens to pass near her table. Her game is loaded now, the character selection screen for Glitchframe Arena displaying five avatars glowing with neon highlights against a backdrop of fractured digital landscapes. She’s hovering over one called “Nyx.exe,” a lithe, hooded figure with glowing fingertips and what looks like code streaming from its eyes.

“Good choice,” I say before I can stop myself. “Best Fracturer in the game.”

She startles slightly, then gives me a look that’s half surprise, half suspicion.

“You really do know Glitchframe.”

I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Told you I played the beta. Vertex got me to Diamond before I quit.”

Her eyes widen, genuine respect flickering across her face. “Diamond? Seriously? That’s... actually impressive for an adult.”

I can’t help but laugh at that backhanded compliment. “Thanks, I think.”

She selects Nyx.exe, then hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I’m trying to get my team qualified for regionals, but our practice schedule is complicated.”

“School team?” I ask.

She nods. “We’re the Glitch Gremlins. Cedar Hollow’s first competitive team.” Pride edges into her voice, making her sit a little straighter. “I’m Owl_Eyes. I’m the team captain and lead Fracturer.”

“Impressive,” I say, and mean it. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

Her shoulders drop slightly. “Yeah, well. We’re good, but... finding practice time is hard. My grandparents think it’s a waste of time. They don’t get that e-sports are a real thing.” She glances up, as if surprised by her own candor. “Sorry. You probably don’t care about game stuff.”

“Actually, I do,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “The library network’s pretty solid now. Could be a good place to practice.”

She considers this, gray-green eyes calculating.

“Maybe. If Mrs. Abernathy doesn’t kick me out for ‘excessive clicking.’” She mimics the librarian’s pinched expression with startling accuracy.

I smile despite myself. “I could talk to her. Explain it’s for school team practice.”

“Really?” The hope in her voice makes her sound younger, reminds me she’s just a kid trying to find her place. “That would be awesome, Mr. Halvorsen.”

“Eli,” I correct automatically. “Mr. Halvorsen is—not me.”

She tilts her head, studying me with that same careful assessment. “I’m Ivy.”

“If you’re serious about competition,” I hear myself saying, “there’s a few tweaks that might help with your system setup. Optimizing graphics settings for responsiveness over visuals, for one.”

“Really?” Her interest is immediate, eyes widening. “Could you show me?”

I hesitate, aware of how this might look—a grown man offering tech help to a preteen girl. But the librarian is still at her desk, the English teacher still wrestling with her login, and there’s nothing inappropriate about gaming tips.

“Sure,” I say, pulling up a chair beside her—not too close, but close enough to see her screen. “It’s mostly about prioritizing frame rate over resolution.”

For the next few minutes, I guide her through settings adjustments, explaining each change and why it matters. She absorbs it all with surprising focus, asking sharp questions that reveal how deeply she understands the technical aspects of the game. It reminds me of programming sessions with my college roommates, that rare flow of conversation where no one has to simplify or explain the basics.

“That should give you at least fifteen more frames per second,” I conclude, watching as she tests the newly optimized settings. “Makes a difference in fast-paced fights.”

“This is amazing,” she says, eyes glued to the smoother gameplay. “Thanks, Mr. Halvorsen. Seriously.”

“Eli,” I correct her again. “Just Eli is fine.”

She glances up, something like a smile tugging at her lips.

The library’s overhead lights flicker once—the five-minute warning before closing. Ivy sighs and begins shutting down her applications.

“I should go,” she says, reluctance evident in her voice. “My grandmother’s probably already waiting outside.”

I stand, taking a step back to give her space. “Good luck with your scrims tomorrow.”

She packs her laptop with careful precision, each movement economical and practiced. “Thanks.” She pauses, then adds, “Do you ever... I mean, are you here often? For tech stuff?”

The question hangs between us, casual on the surface but weighted underneath. I hear what she’s really asking. Will you be around again? Can I talk to you about these things that no one else seems to understand?

“Every Tuesday and Thursday,” I say. “I maintain the systems for both Cedar Hollow and Salt Point schools.”

She nods, shouldering her backpack. “Cool. Maybe I’ll see you around then.”

“Maybe you will.” I watch as she heads toward the exit, her posture straight despite the heavy backpack. Just before she reaches the door, she turns back.

Ivy smiles—a real one this time, brief but genuine.

“Thanks,” she says, and then she’s gone, pushing through the library doors into the afternoon light.

I stand there longer than necessary, staring at the space where she disappeared, trying to shake the feeling that something important just happened. Something I’m missing. The nagging sense of familiarity returns, stronger now, but I still can’t place it.

With a sigh, I gather my toolkit and head for the circulation desk to sign out. Some puzzles aren’t meant to be solved in an afternoon. But as I drive back toward Salt Point, the image of Ivy’s determined focus stays with me, a reflection I recognize all too well.

Keep reading — the paperback’s at the top of this page.