Then I heard yelling. Someone must have scared him away, because the hitting stopped. Not the pain.
Father John came to the hospital. So did the police. They kept asking the same questions: “What did he look like? What did he say? What did he do? What did he say? What was he wearing? What did he do? What did he look like?” Again and again . . . and again.
He was short. About my height, but that’s not tall for a man. Where I am thin, he was stocky. He wore a dark hoodie and had stubble. I remember his stubble. And I remember his hands around the bar. Mine are long. He had small hands with short fingers. Isn’t that odd? I noticed every detail about his hands. His thumbs were stumpy, and three fingernails were beaten black on his left hand. The right hand was scraped up, but the nails were intact. And they were dirty. Both hands were dirty. I remember the hands.
They kept me at the hospital overnight to watch me. I have a concussion and thirteen stitches along my right eyebrow. There’s some pretty good bruising too. My right forearm is pretty bad. I used it to shield my head, I guess. They also took X-rays to see if he fractured my jaw. He didn’t.
I’ve been trying to work up the courage to go back to class tomorrow, but I can’t do it. I barely made it to the library today, and it’s only a few blocks away. Ten in the morning, and the footsteps behind me paralyzed me. I couldn’t move until there was no one behind me. I ended up walking almost sideways, pressing my back against the buildings. It took me over an hour to walk six blocks.
And they didn’t find him, Mr. Knightley. He’s still out there. Was he behind me today? Is he near the ‘L’? Is he near Grace House? Does he wander the streets? I don’t have any answers. I don’t even remember his face.
Please get as much of your tuition back as you can. Again, I’m so sorry.
Sincerely,
Sam
NOVEMBER 6
Dear Ms. Moore,
Father John and Mr. Knightley agree that no time should be lost to make you feel safe. Nor should you sacrifice your program. As you know, Father John has secured an above-garage apartment for you at the home of Mr. and Mrs. David Conley on Lake Avenue, two blocks south of campus and within easy walking distance of downtown Evanston.
Mr. Knightley has extended your grant to cover the additional expenses such a move entails. You will not need to seek further employment during your tenure at Medill. Additionally, please find the enclosed check for $300. This money is to be used for cab fare to and from Northwestern University until your move this weekend.
Father John can provide further details. Additionally, please contact me if any of these arrangements fail to meet your expectations.
Sincerely,
Laura Temper
Personal Assistant to
Mr. G. Knightley
NOVEMBER 9
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you. I don’t understand this kind of generosity, but I thank you—you and Father John. It’s a little overwhelming, to be honest. I questioned Father John about it.
“This doesn’t make sense. I don’t need to get a job? This is costing that foundation a fortune. What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one. Consider it grace—a gift unwarranted and undeserved.”
“Everything comes with a price, Father John.”
“Not everything, Sam. Not always. The foundation’s director has never extracted a price before, never even accepted thanks. Your personal letters are the most he’s ever become involved.”
“You don’t know him?”
“I feel I do, but, no, I’ve never met him.”
“Then I’m coming after you if this turns weird.” I raised my eyebrows. I was both making a joke and letting Father John glimpse my skepticism. It didn’t work—moving the right eyebrow made me flinch and simply reminded me why you and Father John are doing this—and how much I need it.
Father John caught it all and smiled at me. “Don’t fret. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Thank you.”
