Chapter 8

Quinn woke at four thirty, his usual time. His internal clock still thought he was living on the street. Back then, four in the morning was when the city was safest, neither the night crowd nor the early risers around. He lay still for a moment in the dark of the closet and listened to the house. Nothing.

He got up, used the bathroom, washed his hands, and looked at fading bruise on his face in the mirror. He went back to the closet, grabbed the blanket, folded it precisely the way Ms. O’Toole had shown him and returned it to its shelf in the bathroom. He made the bed, fluffed the pillows, put them where they belonged, and stuffed the sock under one. He checked the result from the doorway and found it acceptable.

Then he shut and latched the window.

He sat at the desk in the dark and thought about the day ahead for a while before he turned on the lamp and read. When he heard people start to move around, he changed into his school uniform, checked his backpack one final time, and went downstairs.

The kitchen at six in the morning was warm, heavy with the smell of brewing coffee and bacon cooking. Maria was at the stove. Sullivan was at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He looked up when Quinn came in, silently nodded, and went back to the newspaper.

Quinn sat at the counter. Maria turned and looked at him, blessing him with a cheerful good morning smile.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please,” Quinn said.

She put a plate in front of him twelve minutes later—scrambled eggs with peppers and some shredded cheese folded in, wheat toast, and a big glass of orange juice.

Quinn thanked her and ate with the same focused sincerity he’d brought to last night’s meal.

He looked at Sullivan. “I’ll be heading out now, Mr. Sullivan”

Sullivan turned a page of the newspaper. “Okay.”

Quinn waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t. He filed this as acceptance and moved on.

“The Colonel will be back today,” Maria said from the stove.

Quinn thought about the Colonel. The pale eyes, the measured questions, the library. The something different still undefined.

“Thank you for the food, ma’am. It was real good,” he said and left.

He didn’t ask about a lunch. If there was any, they would have told him. He collected his backpack from by the door. He was on the front path at six thirty exactly.

The walk was good. The morning was cool and clear. Quinn walked at an even pace with the backpack comfortable on his shoulders and watched the city wake.

The neighborhood changed as he walked. The houses grew larger and then larger still, the lawns changing to estates like the Colonel’s. Probably the world his classmates came from.

The campus gates were open. He had five minutes to find the Whitmore Building, the second floor, and the counselor’s office. He was standing in front of her desk at exactly seven thirty. She looked up at him with the same disapproving expression she had yesterday.

She slid the test across the desk to him.

He picked it up, took it over to the table by the window, and read through it entirely before writing a single answer, paying attention to the directions. That was the way he did tests: know the full shape of the thing before you start any part of it. It was the Spanish Two final, with written and reading comprehension, a grammar section, and a written response prompt. He went through it in order, working cleanly, and set his pen down at eight twenty.

He slid the completed test back across her desk.

Mrs. Abernathy looked at the test, at the clock, at Quinn, and then at the test again. She began marking it with tight, efficient movements.

Quinn sat with his hands folded and waited.

She set the pen down.