In the long ago, when I loved Between the Lines as a brooding bird her clutch of eggs, I asked some participants what novel should replace the Gideon’s Bible in motels worldwide. It’s one of my favorite questions, and I really do wish I’d asked it of every respondent. Sacrilege is so wholesome, you see. Proffered replacements included Anna Karenina (an interesting choice because Tolstoy increasingly focused on Christian themes in his subsequent work), The Great Gatsby (the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg are watching you), Little, Big (atmospheric mystery, modestly nominated by Crowley himself), and my favorite book never — or not yet? — written: 200 Flawless Short Stories from around the World Nominated by Compassionate Literary Human Beings from every Country Plus a Few Stateless Peoples (a sprawling title, yes, but when David Mitchell coins something, you pocket it). But enough about them. Quixote is my Gideon’s Bible—or rather, my siren call. It doesn’t matter what time it is, either. It can be 2:30 in the morning, as I shuffle down the hallway, groggy and bleary-eyed, to scratch my boy behind the ear. And if I catch a glimpse of that great big red book, it’s over, done, my sleep is kaput. I’m wide awake now. As if my face were awash in the soft glow that emanates from Tarantino’s briefcase. There’s nothing left to do except turn a page or two—or more. What’s your Gideon’s Bible? Your siren call?