Anyway, at about eleven P.M.on that June 20th I was in my room attempting to read some of the lessons Dr. Kreizler had assigned to me for that week-exercises in numbers and readings in history-when I heard the front door downstairs close. I felt my body tense the way it always did and still does when I hear the sound of a door at night; and then, listening, I made out one heavy, strong set of footsteps on the blue-and-green Persian carpet of the stairway. I relaxed: Cyrus’s gait was as recognizable as the deep breathing and gentle humming that always accompanied it. I fell back onto my bed and held my book at arm’s length above me, knowing that my friend would soon poke his broad black head in to check on me and waiting for him to do so.

“Everything quiet, Stevie?” he asked when he reached my room, in that low rumble that was at once powerful and gentle.

I nodded, then looked over at him. “He’s staying at the Institute, I guess.”

Cyrus returned my nod. “His last night for a while. Wants to make use of what time he’s got…” There was a quiet, worried pause, and then Cyrus yawned. “Don’t be up too late, now-he wants you to fetch him in the morning. I brought the barouche back-you’ll want to take the calash and give one of the horses a rest.”

“Right.”

Then I heard those heavy feet and legs lumber off toward the back of the house and the sound of Cyrus’s door closing. I set my book down and took to staring blankly, first at the simple blue-and-white-striped wallpaper around me, then at the small dormered window at the foot of my bed, out of which I could see the rustling, leafy tops of the trees in Stuyvesant Park across the street.