“So, tell me more about the work you do with the City Shelter,” said Dr. Boadu.

The professor shrugged. “I’ve already told the Club most of the details. We house a few, usually people who are waiting for their status to be regularized. City bureaucracy is horrendous.” He paused to acknowledge the pathologist’s nod of agreement with a small smile. “And we feed a lot more—mainly people on the streets whose status is a little more gray and unknown. We don’t ask questions. A lot of children pass through. Children are always hungry.”

“But how did you come to be involved in the shelter?”

“Oh!” The professor seemed surprised, as if this kind of question rarely came his way. “Well, I wasn’t always a Freeman, and people would often come to me asking for help with forms and documents. I began to realize that there were some other simple problems to be solved. A shower and clean clothes for an interview doesn’t sound like much, does it? But those things are difficult to come by when you haven’t got money for the most basic guesthouse room.”

“There are plenty of hostels just outside the City,” Dr. Boadu protested mildly.

“Priced out of the range of most non-Freemen, I’m afraid. And then there are things like getting documents printed, accessing libraries.” He paused and drank from his glass of ice water, slowing and cooling the pace of the conversation. “Things Freemen take for granted.” Professor Malveaux spoke the final phrase in a detached manner, without censure, but Dr. Boadu bit his lip and looked saddened.

“I’ve been in pathology for a long time,” he said. “My experience with these people has not been the best. I usually see them on my table, victims of crime, industrial accidents, or simple neglect. Some suicides too. I’ve become inured. It’s not good.”

Chance saw a fleeting hardness set the professor’s ordinarily genial face into a grimmer mold, but then the moment passed and his features relaxed once more into an expression that seemed like compassion.

“Anyway, last week was the last straw for me. That boy . . .”

The professor inhaled and breathed out a slow, sorrowful sigh. “I did not know him. I’m ashamed to say that I did not know him, or if I did, I do not remember him.”

Dr. Boadu smiled. “You can’t expect to be everywhere, Malveaux. You do a lot as it is.”

“It’s never enough.” Professor Malveaux shrugged.

“Well, I’ve decided to do something practical with my guilt. I want to make a personal donation to the shelter, and I also plan to recommend to the Club that we take it on as one of our permanent charitable concerns.” Dr. Boadu was already fumbling in his pocket; he withdrew a neatly folded rectangle of paper and passed it to his colleague.