Crouching behind a car, panting. Hands and knees on the icy pavement. Desperate for a place to hide trying car doors one after another until I found one that was unlocked. Climbed inside, into the backseat, on the floor making myself small as a wounded animal might. On the rear seat was a man’s jacket, I pulled over myself. Meant to hide for only a few minutes until the braying boys were gone but so tired!—fell asleep instead. Wakened by someone tugging at my ankle.

Mr. Sandman’s dark face. Steel-wool eyebrows above his creased eyes. “Vi-o-let Rue! Is that you?”

His voice was almost a song. Surprise, delight.

“What are you doing here, Vio-let? Has someone been hounding you?”

Of course, Mr. Sandman knew. All of the teachers knew. Though I had not ever told.

How much worse it would be for me, if I told.

I was not sure of the names of my tormenters. It was a matter of shame to me, there were so many.

“Well! You don’t have to tell me who the vermin are just yet, dear. You have already been upset enough.” A pause. A stained-teeth smile. “I will drive you home.”

Invited me to sit in the passenger’s seat beside him. Astonishing to me, the math teacher famous for his sarcasm was behaving in a kindly manner. Smiling!

Though glancing about, to see if anyone was watching.

It was late afternoon, early winter. Already the sky was dim, fading.

In my confusion, waking from sleep, I seemed not to know exactly where I was, or why.

Mr. Sandman advised me, I might just “hunch down” in the seat. In case some “nosy individual” happened to be watching.

“One of my teacher-colleagues. Eager for gossip, you bet.”

Quickly I hunched down in the seat. Shut my eyes and hugged my knees. I did not want to be seen by anyone in Mr. Sandman’s car.

Mr. Sandman’s car was a large heavy pewter-colored four-door sedan. Not a compact vehicle like most vehicles in the faculty parking lot. Its interior was very cold and smelled of something slightly rancid like spilled milk.

“You live on the east side, I believe? Is it—Ontario Street?”

This was astonishing to me: How did Mr. Sandman have any idea where I lived?

“Not Ontario? But nearby?”

“Erie . . .”

“You are wondering how I know where you live, Violet? And how I know with whom you live? Well!”

Mr. Sandman chuckled. It was part of his comic style to pose a question but not answer it.

When I was allowed to sit up a few minutes later and peer out the car window it did not appear that Mr. Sandman was driving in the direction of Erie Street. The thought came to me—He is taking another route. He knows another, better route.