I had to be wary, too, of this thin, anxious girl. If she was the reason I didn’t leave, when she asked me about myself and my education I was evasive, as if I didn’t quite believe my own stories, or, in the end, couldn’t be bothered with them, which frustrated her. She wanted more of me. I could see she knew I was holding a lot back.

“What have you been writing?” I asked now, as we walked.

“A poem about windows.”

“Everyone knows poems and windows don’t go together.”

“They’ll have to get along,” she said. “Like us.” Then she said, “Hurry, you’ve got to go and see Patricia.”

“Now? Is she angry with me?”

She squeezed my hand. “I think so.”

Her fear increased mine. I was reminded of all kinds of past transgressions and terrors: of my mother’s furies, of being sent to the headmistress to be smacked on the hand with a ruler. In my youth, all sorts of people were allowed to hit you, and were even praised for doing it; they didn’t thank you if you returned the compliment. Now, as numerous other fears arose, I went into such a spin it took me several moments to remember I was called Leo Adams. I could choose to behave differently, to revise the past, as it were, and not be the scared boy I was then.

“Come on,” I said. “Walk with me.”

“Aren’t you afraid of her?” Alicia asked.

“Terrified.”

“I am, too. Are you going to leave?”

“Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

“Please don’t.” She went on, “But there is something else, too. She heard your joke.”

“She did? She didn’t mention it to me.”

“She might now, perhaps.”

“How did it get around?”

She blushed. “These things just do.”

A few days ago I had made a joke, which is not a good idea in institutions. It was not a great joke, but it was on the spot and had made Alicia suddenly laugh in recognition. I had called the Center a “weepeasy.” I used the word several times, as we young people tend to, and that was that. It had entered the bloodstream of the institution.

Now we walked through the village to Patricia’s. The shops were closed; the place was deserted. Most people were having their siestas, as was Patricia at this time, usually.

Outside Patricia’s, Alicia said she’d wait for me under a tree across the square.

I knocked on the door, and Patricia’s irritable face appeared at the window. I’m glad to say I always annoyed Patricia; by being alive at all, I failed her. On this occasion, to my dismay, she brightened.

She had come to the door wearing only a wraparound skirt. Her large brown breasts were hanging down.

“My,” I said, and then blushed. I knew she’d heard it as “mine.” I went on, “Patricia, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”