Chapter 1
"Lisa, are you feeling okay?"
"What?" Lisa looked up at her boyfriend, sitting across the small coffee shop table from her. The
nub of one pencil stuck out from behind his right ear, while he tapped the gnawed end of another
against his lower lip. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said.
Her words were almost lost in the hum of talk that filled the shop. It was early afternoon, yet the
sun's last rays already shone through the front plate glass window onto the students seated at
crowded tables. When the tables ran out, some students had even taken up positions on the floor,
improvising chairs and tables out of backpacks and stacks of books. She and her boyfriend had
been lucky enough to stake out an actual table, which was now obscured by a scattered
assortment of papers and notebooks.
As the front door opened and closed with the traffic, gusts of chill air sweetened the burning
leaves smell of coffee that filled the shop.
"Ya sure?" he asked, eyebrows creasing. "You look kinda distracted."
"I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm just worried about finals. You know. Greenberg's is going to *kill*
me." She indicated the open notebook in front of her for emphasis. She was highlighting the few
notes that applied to the class in a color scheme that was more aesthetic than useful. "1204? Did
you write down what happened in 1204?" Lisa stretched across the table to get a better look at
her boyfriend's notes. There wasn't that much to see. The college ruled page had a couple of lines
at the top that might be course related, in a scrawling handwriting that was nearly impossible to
read upside down. The rest of the page was, as near a Lisa could tell, devoted to song lyrics. "Did
you even bother to take notes?" she asked, falling back into her seat.
"Sure," he answered. He flipped back a page. "See," he said, pointing to a block of text. "Here,
and here." He went through the pages too rapidly for Lisa to verify what he was showing her.
"Okay," she said, "So, did you happen to write down what happened in 1204? It's going to be on
the test. You know it is."
"What do your notes say?"
"September 29th. That was the day of the lecture. 'External History of English - Highlights'," she
read aloud. "Then I have a list of dates: 449, 597, 865, 1066, and 1204. I didn't write down what
happened on those dates."
"You even bother to take notes?" he mimicked.
"Yeah, yeah," she said, subdued. "I know it was something important, or it wouldn't be in here."
"Gimme." He grabbed her notebook away and started paging through it. "It can't be that
important," he said, after a minute or so of looking. "You only have them in here once." He
started to turn the page, then looked closer at what it said. "What do 'carpal', 'metacarpal',
'phalanges', 'ulna' and 'radius' have to do with English history?"
"They're words," she answered. "You know. Vocabulary words. They're, uh, descended from
Latin and are, uh, you're not buying any of this are you?"
He shook his head, then gently reached over and took her hand and started to massage it. "I know
this is a phalange," he said, touching her index finger. He rubbed each finger in turn saying, "and
so is this one." The massage finished, he pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed her palm.
"You have beautiful hands."
"Thanks," Lisa answered, the glow of the attention heating up her face. The best part about being
in a relationship, she decided, was the random compliments. Too bad finals were fast
approaching and compliments didn't make good grades.
She pulled her hand back and deliberately opened the notebook to the page with the dates.
"Adam, we need to study."
There was a slight pause in which everyone in the coffee shop seemed to stop talking. "Adam?
Who's Adam?" he asked, then the noise started up again, louder.
"What?" Her voice caught as her words started to catch up to her. "Where'd you hear 'Adam'? I
said Isaac." No she didn't. She knew what she had said. What she couldn't figure out was why she
said it.
"You didn't. I know my name when I hear it. I didn't hear it. Who's Adam?" He let the pencil
drop to the page and leaned back in his chair, as if to get a wider view of her.
"I must have gotten mixed up. It's a pretty common name." She protested, but didn't feel it.
"Lisa. You don't need to keep secrets from me. There ain't nothin' I can't handle." He said the last
with a downward swipe of his hand. He was slipping into what Lisa had come to think of as his
'tough guy' accent. He only used it when he was trying to prove something.
"It's not important," she said at last. "Just this guy I knew a long time ago. I don't know what
made me think of him now."
"We look alike?" Isaac asked.
She took a moment to size him up. Isaac wasn't what anyone would call gorgeous, but he was
good looking. Clear skin, full lips, straight teeth, wide brown eyes with thick, dark lashes. His
head was shaved in some current fashion that was probably an attempt to hide a retreating
hairline. "I can't really remember," she answered, picturing Adam perfectly. There were no
similarities at all. "He was white. Still is, I guess." She shrugged. "I think he had dark hair."
Why was she lying? She was dating this guy; she should be telling him the truth. As much as she
was allowed to tell, anyway.
Isaac's eyes widened and he half stood up in his chair. "You got it on with a cracker!" He
sounded repulsed at the mere idea. His lower lip began quivering in a way Lisa had never seen
before, and his throat looked tight.
So much for there being nothing you can't handle, she thought. "It bothers you that much?"
"Hell, yeah. That's a sell out. African-American queens should only be gettin' it on with African-American kings."
"We didn't 'get it on'," Lisa protested. Out of the corner of her eyes she glanced around the caf‚.
The noise level hadn't changed again, but she felt like everyone was looking at her. One person
was, a grad student type person at the next table who quickly looked away. Lisa lowered her
volume, "I can't believe you're even saying what you're saying. We didn't date. We didn't kiss."
'I teleported with him,' she remembered trying to explain to her mother. That conversation had
gone only slightly better than this one.
"Sit down," she continued. "You're making people stare. Adam was just a friend. I met him on a
trip overseas and haven't seen him since. There's nothing more to tell you and nothing, absolutely
nothing, for you to be so worked up about."
"I ain't worked up." He sat down, reluctantly.
"Bull. We've been seeing each other for over a month and this is the first time you've ever been
anything but pleasant towards me. Come on. We were having a nice afternoon. As nice as
possible, anyway, considering Greenberg's exam is less than two weeks away. Can you just drop
it and let's study in peace?" She bent back over the notebook to lead by example, and started
highlighting the dates. She'd have to remember to look them up.
Isaac stood up without a comment and walked over to the register. Lisa didn't turn around to see
what he was doing over there. Mostly, she was afraid to know. She tidied up some of the loose
papers that had spilled from her notebook, old homework assignments and the like. She couldn't
wait for the end of semester bonfire when she could turn all this paper into fuel.
A minute later he returned. He plunked two large, paper cups on the table. "Green tea," he said.
"We need a break from the caffeine." He sat down in his chair again, then scooted it over so he
was sitting next to her. The legs squealed against the tile floor. No one seemed to notice. "1204,
you said? That the date?"
"Yeah," she said. "I think it has something to do with Vikings. Or Romans?" She picked up one
of the textbooks for the class and started paging through it. "Maybe it's the French."
Isaac slipped is arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "Tell me again why we
studying this. They all been dust for centuries."
She let herself lean in against him. He smelled of Old Spice deodorant; a scent she was beginning
to associate just with him. "It's going to be on the test." She almost added a comment about his
grammar, but decided to let it slide. It wasn't too late to rescue the evening.
"Don't he say that 'bout everything? He can't put everything on the test he say he gonna put on the
test."
She tilted her head to look up at him. "Remember the midterm?"
His throat tightened again and he nodded. "1204," he said. "You find it yet?"
"Not yet," she answered. "I can see I'm going to be up very late tonight."
****
Professor Grimm hated grading undergraduate research papers. At least once every semester he
came to that same conclusion. The problem, as much as he hated to degrade other educators, was
that high school English teachers seemed less and less interested in teaching grammar, spelling,
vocabulary and form, and more and more interested in making sure the kids graduated with high
self-esteems. The sad result was undergraduates who couldn't express a thought to save their
lives, yet paradoxically believed that all of their writing was brilliant, award winning even.
He set the current paper on the end table next to him. The top page was almost covered in red
inked comments; comments he shouldn't have had to make to a student at the university level.
Her paper was too long, for one thing. While he encouraged his students to go beyond the terms
of the assignment, he still expected their work to be coherent. This one wasn't. There were topic
sentences, but the arguments were mainly of the "because I said so" nature. Sadly, it was one of
the better examples from this particular class.
Letting out a deep breath, he pushed back into his leather easy chair and reached for the cup of
coffee on the end table to his right. It was cold. He knew that before even touching the mug; it
probably wasn't even the same cup he had made before coming into the den to get the grading
finished. Indeed, one glance at the congealed cream floating on the surface of the liquid
confirmed that. That meant he'd left the new cup somewhere else.
He grabbed the handle on the side of the chair to lower the foot rest. It stuck in place. With the
heal of his palm he pounded at it--and caused the chair to rock enough to bump the end table
which sent the cold coffee mug tumbling to the floor.
"Of course," he said out loud. He watched the dark strain spread across the beige carpet and
remembered a time in his life when little problems like this would have ruined his day. He'd
never had much of a temper, but he'd always taken petty problems far too seriously. Now his
petty problems were a welcome relief.
A pounding at the door broke into his thoughts. It took him a moment to connect the staccato
with its meaning, and more awkward seconds to climb out of the chair.
The hallway was dark; a storm having come in so fast while he was grading that the sunlight had
all but disappeared. Who knew how long he'd been grading in artificial twilight.
He opened the door to find one of his students, Alejandro, on the doorstep. The young man was
standing as close to the door as he could without letting himself in, huddled under the overhang.
Rain dripped from the eaves and fell from the sky so hard only the pock marks on the cement
gave it away.
"Hello, Professor," Alejo said. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his yellow jacket.
Alejandro - Alejo - was an import from Mexico, an international student working on his English
under Grimm's tutelage. He was, Grimm reflected, one of the best students in the department,
and one of Grimm's personal favorites. Unlike many international students, Alejo didn't act like
studying English was beneath him. He also wrote papers that weren't too long and which did get
to the point.
"Please, come inside. I can't have you standing outside in this weather. You might get too sick to
go to class tomorrow." Professor Grimm ushered his student into his house, a strong breeze
whipped up by a nascent snow storm all but forcing the young man to accept the invitation.
No sooner was Alejo inside than the wind pulled the door shut with a loud bang that caused both
men to jump.
"I have sorry bothering you in home," Alejo said, squinting into the darkened room.
"No, no. That's no problem. My students are always welcome to visit." Grimm stepped over to
the nearby wall and flipped the light switch. One of the two bulbs in the overhead fixture came
on without incident, the other burnt out with an electric pop and a flash of light. Grimm sighed.
"That's about how my day has been going." He looked at his student. Alejo's broad cheeks were
scattered with patches of dark red, like a bad allergic reaction. Involuntary tears from the cold
gathered in the corners of his eyes. "Can I entice you with a hot drink? You look like you're
freezing."
"Yes. The temperature is much cold." Alejo unzipped his jacket, reached inside and pulled out a
small package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. "Professor, here iss the book that you borrowed
to me." He unwrapped a small black text and handed it to the professor.
"Lent," Grimm corrected automatically. "It's 'borrow from' and 'loan to'."
"Lent," Alejo repeated.
"Or 'loaned'," the professor said, stressing the final 'd'. "'Loan' typically refers to money, while
'lend' is what I did with this book." He rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. "The two words
used to be quite separate in meaning, but appear to be converging into one word now with
several forms. I'm sure some would argue that the convergence is near completion, and that 'lent'
is the current past tense of 'loan'." He looked up, suddenly aware of his rambling. His gaze caught
Alejo's, and Grimm felt his face warm. "Never mind. That's a different topic for a different day . .
. and class."
Alejo nodded. English language history had never been part of his studies. Both of them knew
that even if Alejo had understood, he still wouldn't be able to comment. "How iss your
daughter?" he asked instead. Though they had never met, Sara's health was a topic of constant
concern amongst his students.
Grimm hefted the book, idly flipping through the pages. "She's not getting better." He grimaced.
That was all he could say with any certainty. None of the assorted professionals who had seen
Sara could give a definitive diagnosis about what was wrong with her; none of them could offer
any hope for her future.
A piece of folded paper stuck between the last page and the back cover of the book slipped out
and fluttered to the floor. Grimm bent down and retrieved it. It was a photocopy of the front page
of a newspaper: "The Virginia Post". "Local Girl Vanishes," the headline announced. Little else
of note had happened that day; the headline took up the center front page. Below the headline
was a reprint of the picture of a young, black girl, mid-teens, flanking the column of text that
made up the story. The girl looked uncomfortable in what was obviously a school photo. The
picture's ink was smudged, as if someone had touched the original too often.
"What's this?" he asked, turning the paper around so Alejo could see it.
"I don't know. I not see previous." Alejo's eyes flicked over the text. "Maybe is Eric's paper. He
was read book too. He was read all books. Was spend many times in the bibliotecha. Was no
sleep . . . sleep . . . sleeping?" He looked up at Grimm for confirmation.
Grimm acknowledged the correct form with a nod, then refolded the page and stuck it in his back
pocket. "He wasn't sleeping? Insomnia?"
Alejo shrugged. "Not say. He say have bad dreams."
Grimm turned and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, motioning behind him for Alejo to
follow. As he passed them, he flipped on every light switch along the way. "Have you heard from
him?" He set the book down on the kitchen counter.
"No. He no answer the door. I knock many times, all the days."
Grimm frowned. "That's worrisome. Usually when a student misses that many classes, he calls or
emails or something. Or someone calls on his behalf. I haven't even received a drop notice. Tea,
coffee or hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate," Alejo answered.
"Good choice. Take a seat. You can hang your jacket on the chair." He watched as Alejo
complied, choosing the seat at the kitchen table closest to the stove, then he started gathering the
chocolate making ingredients.
He was putting the water on to boil when movement out of the corner of his eye caught Grimm's
attention. He turned to see his daughter standing framed in the doorway. She was dressed in
worn, but clean, grey sweats, her shoulders hunched as through trying to draw into herself. Her
gaze fluttered around the kitchen, not seeming to see anything, or even to recognize where she
was.
The kitchen chair scraped, then Alejo was standing at Grimm's side. Grimm was suddenly
conscious of how tall the younger man was, towering a good six inches above him.
"Mi chica suena," Alejo breathed, slipping into his native Spanish.
"Lisa, are you feeling okay?"
"What?" Lisa looked up at her boyfriend, sitting across the small coffee shop table from her. The
nub of one pencil stuck out from behind his right ear, while he tapped the gnawed end of another
against his lower lip. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said.
Her words were almost lost in the hum of talk that filled the shop. It was early afternoon, yet the
sun's last rays already shone through the front plate glass window onto the students seated at
crowded tables. When the tables ran out, some students had even taken up positions on the floor,
improvising chairs and tables out of backpacks and stacks of books. She and her boyfriend had
been lucky enough to stake out an actual table, which was now obscured by a scattered
assortment of papers and notebooks.
As the front door opened and closed with the traffic, gusts of chill air sweetened the burning
leaves smell of coffee that filled the shop.
"Ya sure?" he asked, eyebrows creasing. "You look kinda distracted."
"I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm just worried about finals. You know. Greenberg's is going to *kill*
me." She indicated the open notebook in front of her for emphasis. She was highlighting the few
notes that applied to the class in a color scheme that was more aesthetic than useful. "1204? Did
you write down what happened in 1204?" Lisa stretched across the table to get a better look at
her boyfriend's notes. There wasn't that much to see. The college ruled page had a couple of lines
at the top that might be course related, in a scrawling handwriting that was nearly impossible to
read upside down. The rest of the page was, as near a Lisa could tell, devoted to song lyrics. "Did
you even bother to take notes?" she asked, falling back into her seat.
"Sure," he answered. He flipped back a page. "See," he said, pointing to a block of text. "Here,
and here." He went through the pages too rapidly for Lisa to verify what he was showing her.
"Okay," she said, "So, did you happen to write down what happened in 1204? It's going to be on
the test. You know it is."
"What do your notes say?"
"September 29th. That was the day of the lecture. 'External History of English - Highlights'," she
read aloud. "Then I have a list of dates: 449, 597, 865, 1066, and 1204. I didn't write down what
happened on those dates."
"You even bother to take notes?" he mimicked.
"Yeah, yeah," she said, subdued. "I know it was something important, or it wouldn't be in here."
"Gimme." He grabbed her notebook away and started paging through it. "It can't be that
important," he said, after a minute or so of looking. "You only have them in here once." He
started to turn the page, then looked closer at what it said. "What do 'carpal', 'metacarpal',
'phalanges', 'ulna' and 'radius' have to do with English history?"
"They're words," she answered. "You know. Vocabulary words. They're, uh, descended from
Latin and are, uh, you're not buying any of this are you?"
He shook his head, then gently reached over and took her hand and started to massage it. "I know
this is a phalange," he said, touching her index finger. He rubbed each finger in turn saying, "and
so is this one." The massage finished, he pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed her palm.
"You have beautiful hands."
"Thanks," Lisa answered, the glow of the attention heating up her face. The best part about being
in a relationship, she decided, was the random compliments. Too bad finals were fast
approaching and compliments didn't make good grades.
She pulled her hand back and deliberately opened the notebook to the page with the dates.
"Adam, we need to study."
There was a slight pause in which everyone in the coffee shop seemed to stop talking. "Adam?
Who's Adam?" he asked, then the noise started up again, louder.
"What?" Her voice caught as her words started to catch up to her. "Where'd you hear 'Adam'? I
said Isaac." No she didn't. She knew what she had said. What she couldn't figure out was why she
said it.
"You didn't. I know my name when I hear it. I didn't hear it. Who's Adam?" He let the pencil
drop to the page and leaned back in his chair, as if to get a wider view of her.
"I must have gotten mixed up. It's a pretty common name." She protested, but didn't feel it.
"Lisa. You don't need to keep secrets from me. There ain't nothin' I can't handle." He said the last
with a downward swipe of his hand. He was slipping into what Lisa had come to think of as his
'tough guy' accent. He only used it when he was trying to prove something.
"It's not important," she said at last. "Just this guy I knew a long time ago. I don't know what
made me think of him now."
"We look alike?" Isaac asked.
She took a moment to size him up. Isaac wasn't what anyone would call gorgeous, but he was
good looking. Clear skin, full lips, straight teeth, wide brown eyes with thick, dark lashes. His
head was shaved in some current fashion that was probably an attempt to hide a retreating
hairline. "I can't really remember," she answered, picturing Adam perfectly. There were no
similarities at all. "He was white. Still is, I guess." She shrugged. "I think he had dark hair."
Why was she lying? She was dating this guy; she should be telling him the truth. As much as she
was allowed to tell, anyway.
Isaac's eyes widened and he half stood up in his chair. "You got it on with a cracker!" He
sounded repulsed at the mere idea. His lower lip began quivering in a way Lisa had never seen
before, and his throat looked tight.
So much for there being nothing you can't handle, she thought. "It bothers you that much?"
"Hell, yeah. That's a sell out. African-American queens should only be gettin' it on with African-American kings."
"We didn't 'get it on'," Lisa protested. Out of the corner of her eyes she glanced around the caf‚.
The noise level hadn't changed again, but she felt like everyone was looking at her. One person
was, a grad student type person at the next table who quickly looked away. Lisa lowered her
volume, "I can't believe you're even saying what you're saying. We didn't date. We didn't kiss."
'I teleported with him,' she remembered trying to explain to her mother. That conversation had
gone only slightly better than this one.
"Sit down," she continued. "You're making people stare. Adam was just a friend. I met him on a
trip overseas and haven't seen him since. There's nothing more to tell you and nothing, absolutely
nothing, for you to be so worked up about."
"I ain't worked up." He sat down, reluctantly.
"Bull. We've been seeing each other for over a month and this is the first time you've ever been
anything but pleasant towards me. Come on. We were having a nice afternoon. As nice as
possible, anyway, considering Greenberg's exam is less than two weeks away. Can you just drop
it and let's study in peace?" She bent back over the notebook to lead by example, and started
highlighting the dates. She'd have to remember to look them up.
Isaac stood up without a comment and walked over to the register. Lisa didn't turn around to see
what he was doing over there. Mostly, she was afraid to know. She tidied up some of the loose
papers that had spilled from her notebook, old homework assignments and the like. She couldn't
wait for the end of semester bonfire when she could turn all this paper into fuel.
A minute later he returned. He plunked two large, paper cups on the table. "Green tea," he said.
"We need a break from the caffeine." He sat down in his chair again, then scooted it over so he
was sitting next to her. The legs squealed against the tile floor. No one seemed to notice. "1204,
you said? That the date?"
"Yeah," she said. "I think it has something to do with Vikings. Or Romans?" She picked up one
of the textbooks for the class and started paging through it. "Maybe it's the French."
Isaac slipped is arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "Tell me again why we
studying this. They all been dust for centuries."
She let herself lean in against him. He smelled of Old Spice deodorant; a scent she was beginning
to associate just with him. "It's going to be on the test." She almost added a comment about his
grammar, but decided to let it slide. It wasn't too late to rescue the evening.
"Don't he say that 'bout everything? He can't put everything on the test he say he gonna put on the
test."
She tilted her head to look up at him. "Remember the midterm?"
His throat tightened again and he nodded. "1204," he said. "You find it yet?"
"Not yet," she answered. "I can see I'm going to be up very late tonight."
****
Professor Grimm hated grading undergraduate research papers. At least once every semester he
came to that same conclusion. The problem, as much as he hated to degrade other educators, was
that high school English teachers seemed less and less interested in teaching grammar, spelling,
vocabulary and form, and more and more interested in making sure the kids graduated with high
self-esteems. The sad result was undergraduates who couldn't express a thought to save their
lives, yet paradoxically believed that all of their writing was brilliant, award winning even.
He set the current paper on the end table next to him. The top page was almost covered in red
inked comments; comments he shouldn't have had to make to a student at the university level.
Her paper was too long, for one thing. While he encouraged his students to go beyond the terms
of the assignment, he still expected their work to be coherent. This one wasn't. There were topic
sentences, but the arguments were mainly of the "because I said so" nature. Sadly, it was one of
the better examples from this particular class.
Letting out a deep breath, he pushed back into his leather easy chair and reached for the cup of
coffee on the end table to his right. It was cold. He knew that before even touching the mug; it
probably wasn't even the same cup he had made before coming into the den to get the grading
finished. Indeed, one glance at the congealed cream floating on the surface of the liquid
confirmed that. That meant he'd left the new cup somewhere else.
He grabbed the handle on the side of the chair to lower the foot rest. It stuck in place. With the
heal of his palm he pounded at it--and caused the chair to rock enough to bump the end table
which sent the cold coffee mug tumbling to the floor.
"Of course," he said out loud. He watched the dark strain spread across the beige carpet and
remembered a time in his life when little problems like this would have ruined his day. He'd
never had much of a temper, but he'd always taken petty problems far too seriously. Now his
petty problems were a welcome relief.
A pounding at the door broke into his thoughts. It took him a moment to connect the staccato
with its meaning, and more awkward seconds to climb out of the chair.
The hallway was dark; a storm having come in so fast while he was grading that the sunlight had
all but disappeared. Who knew how long he'd been grading in artificial twilight.
He opened the door to find one of his students, Alejandro, on the doorstep. The young man was
standing as close to the door as he could without letting himself in, huddled under the overhang.
Rain dripped from the eaves and fell from the sky so hard only the pock marks on the cement
gave it away.
"Hello, Professor," Alejo said. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his yellow jacket.
Alejandro - Alejo - was an import from Mexico, an international student working on his English
under Grimm's tutelage. He was, Grimm reflected, one of the best students in the department,
and one of Grimm's personal favorites. Unlike many international students, Alejo didn't act like
studying English was beneath him. He also wrote papers that weren't too long and which did get
to the point.
"Please, come inside. I can't have you standing outside in this weather. You might get too sick to
go to class tomorrow." Professor Grimm ushered his student into his house, a strong breeze
whipped up by a nascent snow storm all but forcing the young man to accept the invitation.
No sooner was Alejo inside than the wind pulled the door shut with a loud bang that caused both
men to jump.
"I have sorry bothering you in home," Alejo said, squinting into the darkened room.
"No, no. That's no problem. My students are always welcome to visit." Grimm stepped over to
the nearby wall and flipped the light switch. One of the two bulbs in the overhead fixture came
on without incident, the other burnt out with an electric pop and a flash of light. Grimm sighed.
"That's about how my day has been going." He looked at his student. Alejo's broad cheeks were
scattered with patches of dark red, like a bad allergic reaction. Involuntary tears from the cold
gathered in the corners of his eyes. "Can I entice you with a hot drink? You look like you're
freezing."
"Yes. The temperature is much cold." Alejo unzipped his jacket, reached inside and pulled out a
small package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. "Professor, here iss the book that you borrowed
to me." He unwrapped a small black text and handed it to the professor.
"Lent," Grimm corrected automatically. "It's 'borrow from' and 'loan to'."
"Lent," Alejo repeated.
"Or 'loaned'," the professor said, stressing the final 'd'. "'Loan' typically refers to money, while
'lend' is what I did with this book." He rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. "The two words
used to be quite separate in meaning, but appear to be converging into one word now with
several forms. I'm sure some would argue that the convergence is near completion, and that 'lent'
is the current past tense of 'loan'." He looked up, suddenly aware of his rambling. His gaze caught
Alejo's, and Grimm felt his face warm. "Never mind. That's a different topic for a different day . .
. and class."
Alejo nodded. English language history had never been part of his studies. Both of them knew
that even if Alejo had understood, he still wouldn't be able to comment. "How iss your
daughter?" he asked instead. Though they had never met, Sara's health was a topic of constant
concern amongst his students.
Grimm hefted the book, idly flipping through the pages. "She's not getting better." He grimaced.
That was all he could say with any certainty. None of the assorted professionals who had seen
Sara could give a definitive diagnosis about what was wrong with her; none of them could offer
any hope for her future.
A piece of folded paper stuck between the last page and the back cover of the book slipped out
and fluttered to the floor. Grimm bent down and retrieved it. It was a photocopy of the front page
of a newspaper: "The Virginia Post". "Local Girl Vanishes," the headline announced. Little else
of note had happened that day; the headline took up the center front page. Below the headline
was a reprint of the picture of a young, black girl, mid-teens, flanking the column of text that
made up the story. The girl looked uncomfortable in what was obviously a school photo. The
picture's ink was smudged, as if someone had touched the original too often.
"What's this?" he asked, turning the paper around so Alejo could see it.
"I don't know. I not see previous." Alejo's eyes flicked over the text. "Maybe is Eric's paper. He
was read book too. He was read all books. Was spend many times in the bibliotecha. Was no
sleep . . . sleep . . . sleeping?" He looked up at Grimm for confirmation.
Grimm acknowledged the correct form with a nod, then refolded the page and stuck it in his back
pocket. "He wasn't sleeping? Insomnia?"
Alejo shrugged. "Not say. He say have bad dreams."
Grimm turned and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, motioning behind him for Alejo to
follow. As he passed them, he flipped on every light switch along the way. "Have you heard from
him?" He set the book down on the kitchen counter.
"No. He no answer the door. I knock many times, all the days."
Grimm frowned. "That's worrisome. Usually when a student misses that many classes, he calls or
emails or something. Or someone calls on his behalf. I haven't even received a drop notice. Tea,
coffee or hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate," Alejo answered.
"Good choice. Take a seat. You can hang your jacket on the chair." He watched as Alejo
complied, choosing the seat at the kitchen table closest to the stove, then he started gathering the
chocolate making ingredients.
He was putting the water on to boil when movement out of the corner of his eye caught Grimm's
attention. He turned to see his daughter standing framed in the doorway. She was dressed in
worn, but clean, grey sweats, her shoulders hunched as through trying to draw into herself. Her
gaze fluttered around the kitchen, not seeming to see anything, or even to recognize where she
was.
The kitchen chair scraped, then Alejo was standing at Grimm's side. Grimm was suddenly
conscious of how tall the younger man was, towering a good six inches above him.
"Mi chica suena," Alejo breathed, slipping into his native Spanish.