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146 18 I left campus in a daze and drove around town, unwilling to go home where I’d have to tell Stefan about this new outrage. He’d been through more than enough trauma already. Reporting the cops and Valley in my office would be like letting go of someone’s arm when you’d been dragging him out of quicksand. How could he not sink? So I drove. But where could I go? Where could I ever go to escape what had just happened, what had retriggered the shock of the SWAT team night? Away from the scene, down from whatever ledge I’d climbed onto when I’d shouted at Juno Dromgoole, I thought it impossible that the scars of this week would ever heal. There was no closure possible, only deeper immersion in shame. It didn’t matter that we lived in a small city with only one major newspaper and that the paper hadn’t reported what had happened at our house. It didn’t matter that my name wasn’t being bitten into like a breakfast donut by tens of thousands of people, mocked by some, defended by others. The exposure and humiliation I’d already suffered was enough. It was inside now, searing me like a brand. I ended up heading home with a weird sense of defeat, and was glad that only Marco was home, needing attention, dinner, and a walk. Stefan still wasn’t back when I returned from the walk, and I didn’t bother calling him. I was glad to be alone with my own thoughts, and I fell asleep in bed watching one of my favorite classic noirs, Laura, Marco by my side. When I woke up Thursday morning, Stefan was snoring, which meant he must have taken one of his sleeping pills since that was the only time he snored. I was grateful, because that meant more time before I had to tell him about Valley and the campus cops descending on my office. So 147 I showered, got breakfast for me and Marco, walked him, and when I returned, Stefan still hadn’t woken up. I didn’t have a therapist, hadn’t had one in half a dozen years because my life seemed so placid, but now I thought I needed to talk to someone I could trust. Father Ryan popped into my head for some reason, so I drove to St. Jude’s, hoping to find him. I knew he was often there in the mornings before Mass. Michiganapolis had two downtowns in a way, one centering on the state capitol west of campus, the other around the university, and St. Jude’s was on a cul-de-sac near campus, well inside the smaller, less builtup downtown. The short, dead-end street was the typical mélange of moderately priced ethnic restaurants and clothing stores, but St. Jude’s was near the end where the commercial buildings gave way to fine old houses and older trees and then a public park. Given the bosky setting, the unadorned vaguely Gothic brick façade and bell tower brought to mind a rural church. I parked across the street, put as many quarters in the meter as I had on me, but before I made it over to the steps, I saw Father Ryan emerging in his “clericals.” He looked surprised, then waved, and I dashed across to ask if he had some time for coffee. There was a Starbucks a block and a half away. “That’s where I was going, Nick.” He studied my face as we walked over. “Are you okay?” “Not really. The campus police raided my office yesterday. I haven’t even told Stefan yet.” He looked stunned as we walked into Starbucks, which was almost empty. Coffee shops of all kinds had proliferated in town and you never knew when they’d be filled with students on their laptops, or nearly vacant. I bought us both frozen mocha Frappuccinos and we settled into a corner where nobody could hear us, far from the counter and the baristas, far from the door, and far from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The interior was a small maze of worn leather armchairs and tiny tables, and not my favorite place in town for coffee, but it was close by, and I wanted to sit down with Father Ryan as soon as possible, not wander. I’d never been alone with Stefan’s spiritual...

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