The book was five dollars. Ray knew this because he had paid five dollars, in cash, at the Goodwill on Market Street in Youngstown. The cover was green, faded to a color that was almost brown. The spine was broken, held together by tape that had turned yellow with age.

Ray didn't know what language it was in. He opened it and saw characters that looked like they had been written by someone who couldn't decide whether to curve or straighten their pen. On the left page: these curved characters. On the right page: square blocks. Chinese, maybe. Ray couldn't tell.

He flipped through the pages. Ninety-nine sections, roughly. Each section was a list of words. Curved word, square word. Curved word, square word. It was a dictionary. Or a vocabulary list. Something like that.

"Interesting book," Miguel said when Ray showed it to him at the Goodwill break room. Miguel was from Honduras, thirty-eight, and worked the sorting shift. He had seen everything in the donation bins.

"I don't know what it is," Ray said.

"Could be worth something. Old books sometimes do. There's a guy in Cleveland who buys foreign old books. I don't know what he pays."

Ray put the book in his truck. He was going to use it as a coaster for his coffee mug until he remembered that coasters were cheaper.

The guy in Cleveland said thirty dollars. Ray drove to Cleveland on a Tuesday, which cost him twelve dollars in gas. The guy was in a parking lot off Euclid Avenue, sitting in a Ford F-150. He was a middle-aged white man in a wrinkled suit, and he looked at the book for about two minutes.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Goodwill. Five dollars."

"The curved script is Sogdian. Ancient commercial language from Central Asia. The square characters are Chinese. This is a Sogdian-Chinese vocabulary list. Ninety-nine sections. Do you know what you have?"

"No."

"This is rare. I'll give you thirty dollars for it."

Ray thought about it. Thirty dollars was three days of groceries. But something in him—the same instinct that had made him keep the book instead of using it as a coaster—told him it was worth more.

"My friend said you buy foreign old books," Ray said. "Could you do fifty?"

The man hesitated. "Forty. Cash."

Ray shook his hand. The man gave him a forty-dollar bill. Ray drove home and put the bill in his wallet, under a library card that had expired in 2019.

Two weeks later, Miguel called him. "That guy in Cleveland? He told me he usually pays two hundred for books like that. He said you shorted yourself."

Ray didn't say anything. He had already spent twenty dollars of the forty on gas and coffee.

But the idea stayed with him. Two hundred dollars. For a book he had bought for five.

He called the number Miguel gave him. A man answered, identified himself as "the professor," and said he was interested in the book but had already bought one.

"I sold mine," Ray said.

"Oh. Well, maybe you can find another copy. Sogdian-Chinese dictionaries are rare but—"

"Did he tell you where he got mine?"

A pause. "No. Why?"

"Because I'm thinking maybe I didn't sell it. Maybe I kept a copy. Or maybe I know where the original is."

This was nonsense. Ray knew it was nonsense. But the professor sounded interested, which meant Ray had leverage, which meant something.

"I'm serious," Ray said. "I have the book. Or I had it. I'm not sure anymore. I need to think about it."

He hung up and sat in his truck in the parking lot of the Kroger. He had sold the book. He had the forty dollars in his wallet. The transaction was complete. But the idea had taken root, and it was growing.

He called the professor back three days later. "I have the book. I changed my mind."

"Really? I thought you sold it."

"I changed my mind. How much would you pay?"

"I told you before—two hundred is generous. This is a vocabulary list, not a manuscript. It's rare, but—"

"How about two hundred?"

Another pause. "I need to see it first."

They met in a parking lot off I-685, which was closer to Ray's house than Cleveland. The professor arrived in a Chevrolet Impala, the same kind of car Ray drove, only newer. He was the same man from before, maybe a little older, or maybe Ray was imagining things. He took the book, flipped through it, nodded.

"Two hundred," he said. "Cash."

Ray held out his hand. The man counted out twenty one-dollar bills and two hundred-dollar bills. Ray took them. He had two hundred and twenty dollars. He had sold a book he had bought for five. He should have felt good about this.

"The price might go down," the professor said. "I'm not committed to two hundred. I can go to one-eighty if you want to negotiate."

Ray looked at the money in his hand. He looked at the professor. He thought about driving away.

"One hundred fifty," he said.

The professor raised his eyebrows. "I was offering two hundred."

"I know. But I'm thinking, if I wait, maybe you'll offer more. Or maybe someone else will. So I'll take one-fifty now, and we both save time."

The professor considered this. "One-fifty. Fine."

Ray took one-fifty. The professor drove away in the Impala. Ray stood in the parking lot and looked at the money. One-fifty. He had sold it for one-fifty.

He went to Denny's on Market Street and ordered coffee. He sat by the window and watched the trucks go by on the highway. The Hooters sign was flickering. A building across the street had been empty since 2014.

He thought about calling the professor back. Offering to go back to two hundred. But that would be stupid. Once you start going back and forth, you look desperate.

The professor called him the next day. "I've been thinking. I can do one-seventy-five. But this is my final offer."

Ray considered. One-seventy-five was better than one-fifty. But it was also less than two hundred, which was what the professor had originally offered. Every time the price went down, Ray told himself he was being rational. The gas to Cleveland cost twelve dollars. His time was worth something. The book was just a book.

"One-seventy-five," he said.

They met at a Denny's off Routes 45 and 11. Ray arrived at nine in the morning because he couldn't sleep. The professor was late. He arrived at nine forty-five, ordering coffee and a breakfast special without looking at the menu.

Ray handed him the book. The professor took it, opened it to section 88, and read for a minute. Then he closed it.

"Forty," he said.

Ray stared at him. "What?"

"Forty dollars. This is what I'll pay. Forty."

"You said one-seventy-five."

"I changed my mind. I've done the research. It's a modern compilation, not an antique. The paper is old, but the content looks modern. Forty is generous."

Ray felt something tighten in his chest. "You're kidding."

"No. Forty. Cash. Take it or leave it."

Ray looked at the book. It was just a book. Green cover, broken spine, pages yellowed at the edges. He had bought it for five dollars. He had sold it for one-fifty. Now the guy was offering forty.

"Fine," Ray said.

The professor counted out forty one-dollar bills. Ray took them. They shook hands. The professor got into the Impala and drove away.

Ray stood in the Denny's parking lot and looked at the forty dollars in his hand. He had spent three trips to Cleveland and two days of his time to sell a five-dollar book for forty dollars. He had started at two hundred and ended at forty.

He went to the gas station on Market Street and bought a beer. He sat in his truck and drank it. The Hooters sign was still flickering. A semi-truck backed out of the Kroger parking lot and merged onto the highway, heading east.

Ray went home. He put the forty dollars on the kitchen counter. He opened the cabinet and took out a mug. He needed a coaster.

The book was on his nightstand, under a stack of unpaid bills. He didn't look at it again. Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he would see the green cover in the dark, and he would think about the characters inside—the curved Sogdian words and the square Chinese words, side by side, translated for no one.

The Sogdian merchants had carried these words across deserts. They had written them on stone and parchment and the walls of temples. They had believed that words were the most valuable cargo, because words had no weight and they crossed borders without permission.

Ray drank his beer. The radiator clanked. Outside, the abandoned steel mill was a silhouette against the gray sky.

He went to bed. He slept for three hours. He woke up and went back to work the next day, loading garbage bins at a apartment complex off Boardman-Yangtown Road. It was twelve dollars an hour, cash paid weekly. He was fifty-two years old, and he was good at it.

The book stayed on the nightstand. It collected dust. The green cover faded further, from green to brown-green to a color that was almost indistinguishable from the white of the nightstand.

One morning, Ray's daughter called. She was in Columbus, at community college, studying nursing. She asked if he was okay. He said yes. She said she would call next week. He hung up and made coffee.

The book was still on the nightstand. He didn't know what language it was in. He didn't care. It was just a book.

He took it to the kitchen and used it as a coaster for his coffee mug. It worked fine. The flat cover kept the counter dry.