Free Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Page B

along the counter. “That has nothing to do with it.”
    â€œLani is the best person I know. She’s an athlete. And a pianist. And she’s brave, and she cares about people. She’s a good person, maybe the kindest person I know.” I would have fought a shark to protect Lani at that moment.
    â€œI hope so. Because you know something, Peter? I’m worried. About you. Sometimes I think there’s something very wrong.”

12
    That night there was the smell. Faint, so subtle it might have been only in my mind. After all, Mead was hidden in a place that was cool, nearly cold. But real or not, with every breath, I knew what I had done.
    I could sleep only if I drank, and every morning I felt very bad. My hands trembled, and I had a headache like a vibrating fissure down my cranium, into my spine.
    But when I drank, I could begin to forget what had happened, and what was happening. I knew that every day Mead’s father did not know about his son was another day he could continue to live. If Angela did not have a bottle of the expensive booze for me in the afternoon, I would buy a bottle of whatever seemed right from the One Stop. I began to avoid plain wine, and stick to the fortified wines. Even when I was sober, I could feel the alcohol in me, making my not-drunk hours just the shadow of being intoxicated.
    One morning, someone was stabbed on the steps outside Harding. There were quick, hissed obscenities, a sudden tangle of bodies, and then everyone ran. Everyone but me, and a guy I did not recognize. I was too hung over to function quickly, despite the two fingers of scotch I had swallowed to ease me into the day.
    â€œThey stabbed me! They stabbed me. I’ve been stabbed,” he said. And it seemed impossible that someone who was hurt would be able to speak so calmly. He looked right at me with an expression of mild surprise, and annoyance. “You better call me a doctor because I’m going to die.”
    His shirtfront was glistening with scarlet. It was too red—nothing was that red, and it was sudden. “Don’t worry,” I said, like a talking piece of wood, awkward and barely articulate. “Don’t worry. Someone will call the police.”
    â€œI don’t want any police. I’m dying.”
    â€œYou’ll be all right.”
    â€œI’m going to be nothing if you just stand there like that.”
    But then the crowd closed in, and Mr. Lindner was there, speaking in a quiet voice, calling for a blanket. A campus security man was there, his radio antenna wagging into the air, and I knew that authorities would take charge.
    For some reason I was hoping to see Inspector Ng, but instead it was a policeman in a uniform, a notebook on his knee, and black ballpoint pen in his hand, writing nothing.
    Mr. Tyler assured me that I could say whatever I knew. “There won’t be any harm to you,” he said. “No harm at all, so don’t worry. You can speak in utter confidence, Peter, as I know you will.”
    â€œJust tell us what you saw,” said the policeman, perhaps a little irritated with Mr. Tyler.
    â€œI didn’t see anything.”
    â€œEveryone’s worried about reprisals,” said Mr. Tyler. “It’s hard to blame them.”
    â€œNo, honestly. It was all confused. I didn’t know any of the people—”
    â€œYou recognized none of them?” the policeman asked.
    â€œI didn’t see hardly any of them. The one who got stabbed—I don’t know who he was. If I knew who did it, I’d tell you. I don’t care what happens to me.” I meant this. I didn’t have anything to lose if someone emptied a twenty-two into my head. “But I didn’t see anything. It happened too fast, and I wasn’t paying attention.”
    The policeman nodded, and seemed to understand. “If you remember anything, let us know.”
    â€œIt all happened so