She wrote back haltingly, composing a paragraph, then changing her mind and getting rid of the whole thing, adding some more words, and deleting half of them. In the end, she invited Jane to email again or call, gave her the cell’s number, and urged her to contact the Title IX officer. She told her there were good people at CC who’d support her (and thought about Dean McGrath and Susan Brown, who’d been at least a little more helpful and sensitive to Maggie than the police had been). She also encouraged her to make an appointment with one of the therapists and advocates at Safest Place, Carlton’s crisis center.

Maggie scanned what she’d written, then added the half truth,

I wish I would have used the center last year and talked with a counselor instead of trying to handle the situation without professional support.

Finally, at the end of the message, she wrote,

You’re not alone, Jane.

Maggie’s first thought Saturday morning: I did it!

She rolled toward the edge of the bed and snatched her phone off the floor. Jane hadn’t replied yet, but that was okay. The worst part—for Maggie—was over. She’d finally written back to someone who needed her and hadn’t once broken down while doing it.

Proud of herself, she got dressed, made a fresh pot of coffee, found some leftover Boston cream doughnuts in the fridge, and ate two of them. After bundling up in her winter coat, she headed outside. The wind was fierce and cold, but the sun shone brightly. It glittered across the choppy waves and warmed the top of her head as she searched for beach glass. She carried her palmful of smooth pieces and high spirits up to the loft and checked her phone.

The girl hadn’t written back yet, but Maggie was (guiltily) kind of relieved. The correspondence ball was in Jane’s court. Maggie had finished her part, at least for now.

Then she called home.

“You remembered you had a phone,” her mother said by way of hello.

The surprise and happiness in her mother’s voice made Maggie smile. “Hi, Mom.”

“How’s it going?”

“Good. Just beachcombing.”

Her mother laughed. “Got any other plans for the day?”

Did she? It was the last Saturday of October … oh! “I do. I’m meeting my book club friends in Kesley. We’re going to decide on our next read.”

Ran led the way into the back room and brandished a hand to present a few books in the middle of the floor. “Ta-da!” She knelt by the stack and began humming along to the music playing in the background, a song from Rent.