“The detective investigating my attack called and asked questions about me.”

Doug nods. “She told you about that?”

“You knew?”

“I heard this morning.” He sits in the chair across from me. “I was coming down to talk to you about it.”

“A little late,” I say. “I could’ve used a warning before she showed up.”

“Don’t worry about her, and don’t worry about that detective. He’s a cop, and they ask questions. It’s what they do.” Doug pauses. “Is there something else going on?”

“Something else?” I get up and slide my bag over my shoulder. “Like what?”

He shakes his head. “Forget it. If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

He’s right, I would, and hearing him say it makes me wonder why I haven’t come to him. Doug has been there for me since I was a kid, and there’s nobody I trust more.

The first time we met, I was locked in the Summit Juvenile Detention Center outside the city where Doug had come to tutor a class in English and composition. He walked in with a stack of books and handed them out. The one he gave me was about a group of boys stranded on a deserted island. I never opened it in class, but when I got back to my room, it was waiting for me on my bed along with a note.

It’ll set you free.

I sat down and read it, and over the next six months, I read every book he gave me. Some were better than others, but all of them made an impression.

Later, when I was in college and I told him I wanted to write a novel based on my life before I was arrested, he supported me every step of the way. Sometimes he offered advice, but mostly he just read the pages and encouraged me to keep going.

When the book was finished, he pushed me to submit the manuscript to the university press. I fought him at first. The book was mine, a way to let go of my past, but Doug didn’t let up. After it was published, he put my name in for the open teaching position at the college.