The hall seethed with movement and noise,
teenager herding between classes.

He stepped in front of me, an adult out of place,
differentiated mostly by white shirt and tie.

He had two eyes like all of us, but one, unmoving,
stared off course, over my shoulder, sightless.

His good eye eyed mine, working for two.

He minced no words. “I hear you can write,” he said.

He might as well have accused me of breathing.

All of us had been taught the alphabet, the sound and
shape of each letter, the possible combinations.

We’d learned together—

See Jane run.
See Spot jump.
See Bob climb.

Ten years had passed by in the turn of a page—

Nouns. Verbs. Sentences. Punctuation. Paragraphs.

We all had been taught. We all could write.

I told no one I treasured books. Only Mother knew.
She had confiscated the flashlight more than once.

“My name is O’Sammon,” he said.
“I teach the journalism elective.”
“I’d like you to sign up.”
“I think you’ll be good at it.”

Someone had ratted me out.

I did. I was. A teacher made all the difference.