There had been a few seconds toward the end of that first wrestling practice the day before, when Ben had landed flat on his back and was confused not to be able to pull air into his lungs. He tried and no air came in. He saw the spokes of light extending from each lamp fixture on the gym ceiling and the fans turning languidly through the light. He was utterly trapped in his experience, asphyxiating there with his mouth and nose clear, and so at that moment, nothing in the past or future troubled him at all. All his school dread, all his family worry, anything related to money, everything relented in the bare effort to get his diaphragm to stop spasming and draw in air. Followed by the crashing joy of then being able to breathe.

“It seems more direct or something. No racquet and ball and stuff in between. Just you and the other guy.”

“I think it could be a great idea for you to wrestle.”

“Really?” Ben had wanted Markson to object.

“Definitely.” Markson turned to face him there at the end of the bridge, and they stopped. Someone walking by them wouldn’t have been able to hear. “Listen, I respect Manley Price. I respect most of his methods. But what he did at that practice, making you play Colin like that, it was…I had some questions. I just think it wouldn’t be bad for you to have a wider orbit from him.”

“Okay.”

Now Markson seemed to want to dispel the earlier seriousness. “Have you looked at the Companion at all? At ‘Decision-Making’?”

“Yeah, a little.” Ben laughed. “I need a peaceful and steadfast heart, that’s for sure.”

“Does it seem useful?”

“It seems good. But, I don’t know…”

Markson nodded, waiting. His patience seemed sincere.

“It seems good if you’re trying to decide something. But what if the person reading it doesn’t have a decision to make? Doesn’t get to make a decision?”

“Doesn’t get to?”

Ben paused. “Like what to do when you can’t change something that’s happening?”

“Hm, yeah.”

Ben waited for him to say something about deciding how to handle things you can’t control.

But he said, “I know what you mean. That’s not easy.”

Ben almost pitied him.

They continued walking toward the library, now past the corner that Ben had skidded around in the cart, and along the pond with the chapel in front of them. It rang three Westminster quarters, and Markson half sang the last “bong, bong, bong, bonngggg.” Up the rise was Calder House, where Markson was the junior faculty member, and eventually Ben slowed down to let Markson go in.

“Don’t worry about squash, Ben. Life is long.”

*  *  *

“I don’t want you to wrestle,” said Ahmed.

“What?”

“Underhill played squash.”

“Dude, I don’t give a shit what Underhill did!”