She was ten years old, left in the library, and she gave the librarian the book she’d selected. “I’d like to read it, but I’m dyslexic. I can’t read.” The librarian was a woman like what somebody would have to tell you. A woman like that can’t be picked out of a crowd.
The librarian opened the child’s book. “Here,” she said, “let’s sit down at the library table and start right here. Do you know what sound this letter makes?” They proceeded through that sentence and finished the paragraph. “Can you come here every Saturday morning? Say about nine o’clock?”
“You mean you’ll teach me?” The girl was outside of her normal world with joy. Does she remember now that she’s an adult and loves to read mysteries, say two or three a month? You bet she does, and maybe doesn’t even realize she met up with one in a million women that morning.
Civilization 
The woman who learned to read that way is real, a friend of the family. The librarian, God bless her, was real too, gone now like so many of the wonders of this world.
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