I keep dreaming the overdue books come back at closing

It's always a Friday, always just before I turn the lights off, and the drop box starts making this sound like rain on a tin roof — except it's paper, hundreds of pages sliding through. I open it and the books are all ones I'd forgotten existed, some of them out for decades, and every due-date slip inside still has the same name in the same child's handwriting. I never get to see who returns them. The bell on the door rings, and I wake up.