Keisha takes the envelope from me with an expression more of dread than anticipation. “I guess—I’ll wait to open it later. I’m kind of afraid—what’s inside …”

This is disappointing to me, I think. But no—the money is hers. She must do with it what she will.

“And I also, my dear. It will be a private revelation.”

As Keisha puts the envelope into the deepest recesses of the slightly soiled fabric handbag, so I fold my envelope in two and slip it into an inside pocket of the camel’s hair coat.

I am feeling such strain, it seems that Keisha and I have been together for hours. In fact, we have been at our riverside table less than one hour. So soon ended! But my predominant feeling is relief.

We are on our feet. Another time I see that Keisha is thin-limbed, fragile. I am hoping that the money I have given her will help her in some way to thrive. But I am reconciled to the likelihood that surely, yes, she will spend the money on others far less worthy than herself. For that is Keisha’s character, and character is fate impervious to “plot.”

On our way out of the restaurant, the waiter, whom I have lavishly tipped, bids us good evening. The host, with a bemused air, says “Have a good evening.”

In the hotel foyer, we shake hands in farewell. Keisha’s hand is shockingly small-boned, cold. I tell her that it was wonderful to meet her and that she is very deserving of her award.

“Thank you! And you, too …”

Keisha has forgotten my name, I see. But no matter, it has been a fictitious name, in no way to be confused with the reclusive genius N__.

I do not want to feel anything further for Keisha. Not in a mood to accompany her to the parking lot, to her car. No. My excuse is a need to use the men’s room.

And perhaps Keisha is eager to be alone as well. To get into her car, to tear open the envelope. To discover what the miraculous Third Gift is, for which she will be grateful for the remainder of her life.

Resolved, I will never see Keisha again.

11.

Soon after this humbling incident, in the early spring of 2012, I left Herrontown, PA.

Not the slightest curiosity, what became of Keisha Olen. Or any of them.

For surely nothing of significance could happen to them.

What had been significant in Keisha’s life had been me. And I had no curiosity about me.

What?—you are offended by this abrupt termination of the story. It is unsatisfying. It is in violation of the rules of fiction.