My Mom loved to read. She told me about a book she was reading when she was 14. Well, it was "racy" by the then-current standards (Mom was born in 1914, so we're talking the standards of 1928!), and they took the book away from her before she finished reading it. Now, she told me about this several times during my youth. She mourned the disappearance of that book, and never knowing how it ended. When I was in my late 20's, living in Florida, I had a friend whose brother-in-law owned a bookstore, and I mentioned this story to him. No internet at that time. He said, you can advertise for the book in a newspaper that finds books, and is circulated to used book stores throughout the US. If a copy exists, they'll contact you. So I did. I got three replies! I bought the book for $3. Called Mom. "I've got a copy of Ishmael. I'll bring it up to Cleveland when I visit for Thanksgiving next month." DEAD SILENCE. "Or, I could mail it to you today." She didn't miss a beat. "MAIL IT!" Mom was a person of few words when she was serious. So, I mailed it. When I visited her at Thanksgiving, she looks at me and says (No—not "Thanks for the book!" or, "Glad you're home!", none of that) — she says, "There's a sequel." So, I bought her that one, too. ANOTHER $3! It took 50 years, but she found out how Ishmael's story ended.