Free In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier

parents watched as he withdrew a sheet of paper from the envelope. More delicate handwriting, and a faint whiff of perfume. A bouquet of blue flowers decorated the top right corner of the letter. An address in Wickburg took up the other corner.
    Tilting the letter to the light from the window, he read the following:
    Dear John Paul,
    You may not remember me. My name is Nina Citrone. I was one of the high-school kids Mr. Zarbor hired to help out the day of the magic show.
    I am writing to tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I know that you must be feeling unhappy. I read about your injuries and hope that you are feeling better. Thank God I escaped without getting hurt.
    You were very kind to me the day of the show. I was nervous and you went out of your way to make me feel at ease.
    I hope you are recovering on schedule and will be back in school soon.
    Wasn’t that a terrible day? I still have nightmares. I see the crashing of the balcony just before I wake up. I pray for the souls of those poor children every night when I say my prayers.
    Thank you again for being so nice to me.
    Sincerely, Nina Citrone
    He handed the letter to his mother and went to the window and looked out at the street. He did not want to look at his mother because he would have to confess that he could not recall being kind to Nina Citrone. He himself had been nervous that day, had tried to be helpful to everyone, answering questions, giving directions, trying toappear calm in all the turmoil. He had been attracted to the blond girl, not the nervous one who could not stand still, always moving her hands, shuffling her feet.
    “A nice letter, that,” his father said, looking over his wife’s shoulder. “We are proud of you, John Paul …”
    “You must answer her,” his mother said. “
Demain
.”
    Then, catching herself: “Tomorrow.”
    Maybe the letter was an omen of good things coming at last, he thought that night as he prepared for bed.
    Let me count the good things for a change, he thought, kneeling to say his prayers. I have not had a headache for three days. I will be going back to school on Monday. My name has been cleared, even though there were no big headlines announcing it. And a girl has written me a letter.
    He had never had a girlfriend, had never gone on a date. Had worshipped girls from a distance but never approached them.
    He said his prayers, the old prayers in French, praying, like Nina Citrone, for the children, and adding the soul of Mr. Zarbor. Slipping between the sheet and the blanket, he wondered about Nina Citrone’s nightmares. She saw the crashing of the balcony. His nightmares were different. Vague: the children screaming, someone yelling “fire,” a shadow chasing him. But the nightmare was not the worst part. The worst part came before he fell asleep or when he woke up in the middle of the night, when he heard again the noises in the balcony, what he had thought were rats scurrying through the rubbish and the junk. Maybe, if he had overcome his fear of rats and had gone up to the balcony, he might have found the weakness that caused it to collapse. He turned from the thought but, in the darknessof the room, the sound came back to him, that strange pulling-away sound.
    He placed his hands over his ears to shut it out. Impossible, of course, because the sound was inside his mind, and along with it was the knowledge that maybe he was guilty after all, that his refusal to investigate the balcony had led to the deaths of the children. Nightmares ended when you woke up. Guilt never ended, worst in the dark of night but with you all the time, day or night.
    Alone in the house the next morning, he answered Nina Citrone’s letter. Poised with pen in hand and his mothers best stationery on the table, he did not know what to write. Actually, he knew why he was writing—to thank her for her letter—but how should he say it? Annoyed with himself, he wrote:
    Dear Nina,
    He did not really know her. Maybe he