But Stefan said, “I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me out of here, which I would respect, Dad, since you’ve put up with a lot. But I feel like I have to stand my ground. It’s like, this is my home. This is my place. Do your worst.”

I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t imagine, in that moment, what the worst could turn out to be, not ever reckoning that the worst would be beyond my imagination.

Stefan said then, “This is actually good. In some weird way, I feel like it gives me a new kind of energy. This just makes me want to send a message to the world, even more. About myself. About what I’m trying to do. With The Healing Project. Do I call Channel 15 now, or what?”

I struggled to take this in. The timing could not possibly be worse, given the threats that came earlier. What I wanted was to scream at him, Don’t you dare! How stupid are you? You can’t invite any more attention!

But I fought down my revulsion. He was pushing back, as a person should do.

It was then that I remembered the card the red-haired PBS producer had handed me months ago. All this time, it was in the small wastepaper basket next to the door: It had become stubbornly lodged in one of the wicker plaits and it never seemed worth my time to pick it free. I got it out and handed it to Stefan.

“Do you trust this lady?” he said.

“I don’t even know her. She’s just another reporter. I guess I assume that public TV people have cleaner hands, which is stupid. She could just want to crucify you, like all the rest.”

“Well, I need to try,” he said and took out his phone. He looked so sad that it was as if he’d already accepted the tragic fate that was his, and I had to turn away from the sight. “Ms. Kessler? My name is Stefan Christiansen...yes, I figured you’d know... I wanted to know if you want to do an interview or something with me...sure, my mom would do it too.”

I shook my head violently, but then closed my eyes and nodded and left the room.

My face in the hall mirror was as red as if I’d hiked uphill, and I stepped out onto the porch and hauled in lungfuls of air. As my eyes adjusted to the dim falling light of late afternoon, across the street nearer the corner, leaning against a bus stop sign, was the slight figure in the hoodie and aviator sunglasses. He raised his hand and pointed at me, making the gesture of firing a pistol. A scream beat at my throat like a trapped bird. Then the bus arrived and when it pulled away, he was gone.

7