“No, I am not sure,” Bill said, feeling his body tremble slightly in the dark. “It is often said that we are shaped by our experiences, but I do not—don’t—believe that’s true. Because we don’t choose our experiences, yes? I think we are not shaped by our experiences, but by what we do choose—by the way we react to our experiences.” (God, what was he saying? And why had she stopped moving that beautiful foot?) “My father has not reacted well. Yes, I hate him for it.” His hands were clutched into fists, he noticed after he ran out of words. His body burned. He turned his face away from Anna, ashamed.

Anna watched him; he could feel her eyes on his cheek. She spoke slowly and carefully. “I don’t want to say this, Bill,” she began, “but—your father might be, well, sick in the mind, don’t you think?” She paused a moment, as if uncertain whether to continue, and then said, trying to sound defiant, “It wouldn’t be very fair for you to hate him if he were.”

Bill Landsmann thought of the letter in his father’s desk drawer and flinched. He said, feeling his jaw clench, “There is such a thing as being sick in the mind without being sick in the soul.”

He heard Anna swallow, and saw her delicate neck move. They were both silent for a moment until Anna finally spoke again. “But if people are shaped by how they react to their experiences,” she asked, “and you react to yours by hating him, then how are you shaping yourself, Bill?”

Bill felt himself turning pale. He watched her feet, though he knew that her toes wouldn’t trace the cracks anymore that night. He was terrified to look up, as if she were offering him a priestly blessing, and seeing her blessing him might be fatal. He stared at the sidewalk.

She took his hand. Her fingers were gentle, small and thin, and he felt his own fingers closing around them, caressing them, feeling the warm, beautiful current that flowed from her fingers into his. But suddenly his stomach lurched, as it occurred to him that her fingers held his for the wrong reasons, as if the warm current flowing from them were somehow polluted. He raised his voice and spoke.

“Do you—do you pity me, Anna?”

“What do you mean, pity you?”

He winced, swallowing, searching for words. “Why do you spend time with me, Anna?” he at last let himself say. “Is it because you pity me?”

Anna’s hand jumped in his, startled. But then her fingers pressed against his again. She watched him until he looked at her, and when he did, she smiled and said, “Maybe it’s because I like you, Bill. Hadn’t you ever thought of that?”