Before Heyes started his first semester of real college, he had one final essay to write for Beth Warren. She felt that he was well ready for college in math, but still worried about all the verbal subjects he would be taking on. His aphasia had almost no impact on his ability to do math, but it still caused problems for his writing. This last essay was the longest and most demanding Joshua Smith had ever attempted to write. It was intended to give him one more chance to get used to the length and sophistication of what he would need to do for college work.

Beth Warren had asked Joshua Smith to write in detail about his aspirations for college and the steps he intended to take to achieve them. Heyes found it a hard subject, since his knowledge of college procedures was, despite his semester sitting in, nearly as limited as any incoming freshman's before his first semester began. Also, he didn't dare to share even with Beth his most secret desire to use his new education to benefit his fellow westerners in ways that might well prove impossible. It was terribly hard to envision what might allow an unusually old student to make unusually fast progress towards a very distant goal.

Heyes rather resented being asked to put such complex and rapidly transforming thoughts onto paper. Yet Beth said that she had written a similar essay before she began college. Her essay had proven a guide and inspiration throughout her academic career, she said. So Heyes could see the use in this and he treated it as an important responsibility. But that didn't make it easy.

Heyes found that this essay required an unusual number of new words and new kinds of thinking and writing. And while he was writing, he had countless other distracting things to do as he registered for classes, bought textbooks, and completed his studies with Beth in several subjects. So Heyes found himself fighting against the limitations his lasting aphasia imposed on him – he was still very slow in mentally composing and physically writing anything at all. On the Sunday before his essay was due, he sat at the small desk in the "Smith Brothers'" room, struggling to fulfill this last commitment to Beth. He would write a paragraph, stare at it, and wad up the page. Then he would write another sentence or two, stare at it, and wad up another page of expensive paper. After doing this until his trashcan overflowed and his hand began to cramp, he furiously threw his pen across the room, scattering drops of ink everywhere. He stalked out for a breath of fresh air – or as fresh as New York City air ever was in the heat and humidity of summer.

Heyes almost without his own volition found himself walking the blocks uptown towards the Leutze clinic, as he had so many times before – though rarely on a weekend. Somehow, he had a feeling that the help he needed might be found there. He climbed the stairs and walked down the hall with his hands in his pockets, thinking so hard that he almost ran into Beth Warren as she came out of her office.

"Sorry Beth!" exclaimed Joshua Smith. "I hoped you might be here."

"You look upset, Joshua. Do you want to talk in my office?" Smith nodded and she went to take the places where they had sat so many times, on either side of Beth's broad desk.

"I . . . I'm having trouble with that essay. It's so hard to get my ideas all straight, and I just can't get the words to come . . . I'm so slow. I just feel so – stupid." He leaned his head on his right fist. Beth saw in his eyes not only frustration but a kind of pain.

"Joshua, you are not stupid. I know that very well, and what's more, you know that. You are a very, very intelligent man. You've proven that every single day you've been here." Beth did her best to cheer up her student, but it didn't seem to do much good.

"If I'm not stupid, why do I write so slowly? Why can't I get my brain to work?" Joshua demanded, of himself more than Beth.

"What's the name of the place where we are? It's a clinic for people with aphasia. You have aphasia – it's harder for you to communicate than it is for other people. Why do I have to tell you that again? It doesn't mean you're stupid. You know that after a year and half here." Beth was feeling as frustrated as Joshua was. Why did she have to remind him of these simple facts that he had been grappling with for so many months?

"I've been here a year and a half – I'm supposed to be done here. My supporter's stopped paying for my treatment – I should be done. I should be well!" Joshua sounded angry – but at whom or what?

"You know it isn't that cut and dried. There isn't a set time for recovery." Then it hit Beth what was going on. "Joshua, I think I know what I'm hearing. You aren't just frustrated, as you have every right to be. You're scared – maybe you have some excuse for that. I think you don't have much reason, but you're facing something new and it's natural.

But I also think I hear something that I think isn't justified at all. You're feeling sorry for yourself because you aren't perfectly healthy yet and you know you might not ever be. Come on! Think of yourself a year ago and how far you've come. And think of Sam, who's never made any progress in getting his language abilities back at all. If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for him. You have great promise for your future – he has none."

Heyes still sounded angry, "Sam's fine! Sam was never . . ."

Beth rounded on her student furiously, "How do you know what Sam was, before his stroke? What do you know about him other than how he is now – just silent and harmless. How do you know what he's lost?"

Now Heyes began to wonder just what Sam had lost in his stroke, compared to what Hannibal Heyes had lost in being shot in the head. Surely Sam had never been a really brilliant man, as Heyes had always thought of himself as being. Heyes refused to admit to himself that his friend Sam could have changed that much, "But Sam's just . . . kind of dim – nice, but dim. He couldn't have been an educated man, could he? What was he, a cab driver, a farm hand?"

"Sam went to Harvard. He was Phi Beta Kappa – do you even know what that is? It's one of the most elite honor societies in the country. Sam was a successful bank president with a wife and family. He was a leader in his community, gave heavily to good charities – was a real benefit to society. Sam lost everything he had after his stroke. His wife left him and took the children and the court supported her. Now he's a poor, lonely porter who can't read or write or talk or understand. He can't tell anyone what pain he's in – but believe me, he feels that pain as much as anyone on earth.

And you feel sorry for yourself because you have to work a bit harder than other people, because you're mildly handicapped? What did you do before you were shot that was such a boon to society? Weren't you a cowboy – a saddle bum – just avoiding work? What a waste of what you know full well is a brilliant mind. Your life is better now than it was before and you know it. Getting shot in the head might be the best thing that's ever happened to you. So you have to reach a little harder for a word now and then – don't you think you have the strength to put up with that?"

Heyes sat, stunned, for a full minute before he could reply. Beth was right and he knew it – he knew it far better than she could. He hadn't been any boon to society before he went straight – he had been a bane and a serious one. Who knew how many people were poor and desperate now, or even dead, because of the crimes Heyes and the Devil's Hole Gang had pulled? Getting shot, getting therapy, being around the good people at the clinic – especially Beth – had woken Heyes up and made him make use of what he still had. Maybe he wasn't a silver-tongued con man any more or a famous criminal who could beat out any law man. Now he was a better man with a far, far better future. It wouldn't be easy, especially being still wanted and unsure of how long he could stay a free man, but he knew he could deal with college.

Joshua Smith nodded, head down and blushing a bit. "You're right, Beth. It's hard for me to fess up to it, but you're right. I'm so lucky. I don't even know who paid for my therapy, but whoever it is – I owe him – and you – and the doctors – I owe them my life. But I do still need help – with college. What can I do – to get past . . . my little problems?"

Beth took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Joshua. I just lost my temper. I shouldn't have told you that about Sam – that's violating patient confidentiality. Please don't ever let that information go any farther."

"Of course, Beth. But don't be sorry – I needed to hear it. But what can I do – to help me get by? I admit it – I still need help." Heyes was sincere – as sincere as anyone using an alias can be. He was trying to set aside his old pride and to be honest with himself as well as with other people. This was a whole new aspect of "going straight."

Beth smiled at him encouragingly, "Just because you won't be in therapy here any longer doesn't mean that you can't get help here, or that you don't have people you can turn to. You can come here any time and we'll be glad to help you in any way that we can. I hope you know how much we care and how much we always will. And now you've got a whole new group of people to help you – your professors.

So you can put aside your pride and go meet with each of your professors, as soon as possible – before the semester starts or as soon after as you can. You can explain to them what your difficulties are and see what help they can give you once they understand. I've contacted each of them already, but none of them is familiar with Aphasia. They won't understand the problems until you talk with them yourself. You just can't afford to hide your handicap from them – maybe from everyone else, but not from them. Alright? Can you do that? Maybe one day you won't be handicapped any longer – but right now you are, if only a little, and you have to deal with it honestly."

Heyes looked at Beth gratefully, knowing what an understanding person she was and how very much he needed that now. And maybe he always would. "I can do that. I will do that. You're right, it hurts my pride, but then everything since I got shot has been an . . . exercise in 'pride goeth before a fall.' I guess I had more pride than I had any right to."

Beth smiled a little wider. "But you have every right to be proud now – you've already accomplished a terrific amount. And you're about to do so much more. And while I'm telling you things you shouldn't know . . . No, I really can't tell you that – yet. I know you have secrets – well, so do we. If you work very hard at school, maybe you'll earn the chance to know what I can't tell you now."

"You mean who paid for my . . . treatment and my keep?" Heyes wanted so much to know to whom he owed his life.

"Yes. That's what I mean. And I really can't tell you. One day, perhaps," Beth smiled a bit sadly. Heyes thought about his own secret. If Beth ever learned it, she would be so disappointed. He had the feeling that he wouldn't be disappointed in whoever had paid for his treatment.

Heyes went back to his room and sat down with his pen and ink. Somehow, now his picture of what he wanted to do and how he had to go about it had cleared amazingly. The first step was for him to be honest, or as honest as he could be, with the new group of people who were there to help him – his professors. Like Beth, these were teachers who could change his life. Heyes was getting to have a whole new appreciation for teachers. And perhaps a whole new appreciation for himself, and how lucky he really was.