“Sure, I’ll talk to him,” I say.

“Let me get my dog home and put on some pants and a shirt.” I have just been home from work long enough to get out of my suit, and I am wearing a pair of ragged shorts, a wrinkled yellow T-shirt that advertises “Lobotomy Beer” ( a gag gift from my daughter on my birthday) and Adidas running shoes, which are badly in need of washing. Not exactly a business recruiting outfit.

“Don’t take the time to change clothes,” my neighbor says.

“Just come on back. My brother’s got to drive back to eastern Arkansas as soon as he can. He’s got a sick child at home, and his wife needs him.”

I nod and clap my hands at Woogie, who now that he has relieved himself, is markedly more frisky.

“Let’s go home, boy!” Usually, we walk around at the school while he sniffs the empty candy wrappers and waters the playground equipment. As I walk south to the house, followed by my reluctant dog, I try to remember the article in the Democrat-Gazette.

With the paper withholding the alleged victim’s name and the university claiming privacy under a federal law, the story was mostly about Dade Cunningham’s stats. All I remember off the top of my head is that the victim was a twenty-year-old white cheerleader and the rape was supposed to have taken place off campus. According to the paper, Cunningham claimed the girl consented. Of course, there’s probably never been a rapist who hasn’t argued the act was voluntary. Alleged rapist, I remind myself. There’s a double standard at work here. The media withholds the alleged victim’s name but not the alleged perpetrator’s.