I began chipping ice down the walk in a different direction than Waltham. When I was about twenty feet from him, I heard a loud “clack,” a moan, and I turned in time to see Irving’s glasses skate across the sidewalk. He dropped his shovel and knelt in the snow, covering his right eye. The hour-boys continued shoveling. I picked up his glasses. The lenses were scratched, and one of the earpieces had broken off.

“You okay?” I asked.

Irving didn’t look up. I thought he might be crying.

“Did it hit you in the eye?”

He faced me. “What do you think?”

There was something about seeing him without his glasses on that was pathetic. His injured eye was partially closed and already a little black-and-blue. I tried to fix his glasses but the Band-Aid wouldn’t stick any more. Irving grabbed them from me.

“The thing fell off,” I said.

He put them in his coat pocket. I went to pick up his hat, and he said, “Just leave it alone.” I picked it up anyway and gave it to him.

“You know why they don’t throw at you?” he said. “Because you’re one of them. They can sense it.”

“Come on, Irv. I was just trying to help—”

“I don’t need your help! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here.”

I went back to chipping. Ten minutes later it finally occurred to me. I worked my way back to Irving.

“How’s the eye?” I said.

“Great.”

“Listen, I appreciate your covering for me last night if that’s why you’re here.”

Irving kept shoveling.

“That was nice,” I said.

“That’s all right. You probably would’ve done the same for me.”

“You’re right,” I said, “I would’ve. And I’m with you now if you want to bean the bastard who hit you in the eye.”

“Thanks. But I really don’t want to.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

Irving and I lived in the Dining Hall dorm. Mr. Funderburk also lived on our floor. At the beginning of the trimester I discovered a family of mice living in the walls. Practically every day I’d come face to face with one of them. They weren’t very big—two inches at most—but they had Fundy a nervous wreck.