Over and over, scenarios of how this encounter might go have played in my head. I only hope that the goods I snagged from the bakery this afternoon will bring a little ease to the situation.
I approach the front of the building, my chest tightening with anxiety and my mind frantically considering what to say to the person at the front desk so they’ll let me up.
I’m not sure what the procedure is here. Will they call up and announce my presence? Will I have to plead just to be seen?
In an odd stroke of luck, three girls are exiting as I reach the door and hold it open for me. The urge to scold them for letting an old man who’s clearly not a student into their residence hall is strong, but my arms are full, so I can appreciate their kindness.
There’s a circular desk in the middle of the lobby, but it’s unoccupied.
Right.
Okay, then.
My pulse picks up as I look around. Quickly, I shake off the paranoia. There’s no one here to stop me from just going up.
The real challenge will begin upstairs.
With the bags held out in front of me so I don’t jostle the contents, I hike up a narrow stairwell.
I navigate down the hall, and when I find room 207, I stop and square my shoulders.
There’s a good chance I’ll be turned away and I’ll leave here with an assortment of baked goods and a bruised ego.
But there’s also a chance this could work.
Maybe this is the bridge we all need to start healing.
This could work.
Thishasto work.
With my heart in my throat, I pound on the door three times.
There’s a faint shuffling sound, but the door doesn’t open immediately, and as the seconds tick by, sweat breaks out on my brow.
When the door finally opens, I find myself staring into dark eyes narrowed in critical assessment.
“What are you doing here?” Tytus asks, the words gravelly, like maybe he was asleep. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of athletic sweatpants. There are several patches of gauze taped over his abdomen and almost all of his exposed skin is marred with deep, dark bruises.
Swallowing past the emotion rising in my throat, I force myself to look at his face.
It’s one thing to know that he was hurt. It’s another completely to see physical evidence of the injuries sustained on my watch.
“Hey, man. I’m Noah. I brought you some things,” I offer, holding up the bags. “Thought I would come by to check on you. How are you feeling?”
He shifts back slightly and crosses his arms over his bare chest, the move akin to erecting a thick wall between us.
“Define ‘some things.’”
I frown, taken aback by his attitude. Though maybe I shouldn’t be.
He doesn’t know me from Mercer, a.k.a. the professor who assaulted him, locked him up, and caused all these nasty, painful-looking injuries. I’m sure we’re connected in Tytus’s mind, and fairly so.
I don’t know much about him, either. I dismissed so many of Mercer’s accusations, assuming he was catastrophizing the situation. Maybe that was a misstep on my part.
Anger and defensiveness roll off him in waves. He doesn’t want me here. Of course he doesn’t. It was naïve, I guess, to think that if I showed up with gifts and sincerity, he’d at least give me a modicum of respect.
I inhale deeply and power through, holding up the first bag. “There’s an assortment of baked goods in this one. Cookies and a few apple dumplings. I brought disposable plates and forks, too. Wasn’t sure what you’d have here.”
