I was homeless for six months in 2019. I didn't look like it—I kept my clothes clean and showered at the gym—but I was living in my sedan. The public library was my sanctuary. It was warm, free, and safe. One day, I fell asleep in a back corner chair. I was exhausted. I woke up to a security guard standing over me. I thought, This is it. I’m getting kicked out. The head librarian, Mrs. Gable, rushed over. She’s this tiny woman who wears cardigan sweaters even in July. " officer, is there a problem?" she asked. "He's sleeping, ma'am. Against policy." Mrs. Gable looked at me, then at the guard. "He is not sleeping. He is... meditating on the literature. I was just about to bring him some research materials." The guard walked away. She came back two minutes later with a "research" stack: A bagel, a hot coffee, and a pamphlet for a local housing assistance program. She slid it across the table and whispered, "The 'meditation' room is in the back, it has a softer couch. I'll wake you up before we close." She didn't treat me like a bum. She treated me like a patron. I got my apartment two months later. I went back today to donate $100. Mrs. Gable just winked and said, "Shh. People are meditating."