Then he asked, "What name did Evan give you?" Maya told him. Walter's eyes changed. "You knew them." "I knew of them."
"How?" Walter's thumb moved against the rim of his coffee cup. Last spring, I saw Tyler's group corner that student near the south parking structure. Maya sat straighter. What happened?
Nothing dramatic enough for anybody to call dramatic. Walter's voice had gone flatter. Three people still standing too close, blocking a path, one laughing, one taking pictures. Tyler asking questions designed to make the other person lose their temper. Did you intervene?
I walked over and they separated. Did you report it? Yes. Maya waited. Walter looked down at the notebook.
I was told the matter had been resolved internally. Was it? No. The word came quietly. I found out later that the student withdrew before the semester ended. Maya felt anger tighten beneath her ribs.
Walter continued, "I asked about it. I was reminded that my role was advisory. That bothered you. It still does. He looked at her directly now.
That's why I write. Maya glanced at the notebook. Because nobody looked the first time, because I should have made it harder not to. For the first time, Maya saw something beneath Walter's steady manner. Regret.
Not theatrical guilt. The heavier kind. The kind carried by someone who had spent years believing that following procedure was the same thing as doing enough. Maya understood that weight. "What are you asking me?"
Walter said. "I don't know yet. That's honest. I need to know whether if something happens, you're willing to say exactly what you see." Walter held her gaze.
"Not what you want me to see? No. Not what helps your case. No, what I actually see. Yes. He nodded once.
That I can do. Maya exhaled. A group of adult students crossed the courtyard laughing. One waved to Walter. He lifted two fingers in return.
Then his eyes dropped to Maya's bag. The zipper was slightly open. A black and gold edge showed inside. Walter pointed lightly. What is that?
Maya followed his gaze. Her hand moved automatically toward the zipper. Nothing. Walter's eyebrows rose. That usually means something.
Maya hesitated. Then, for reasons she could not fully explain, she reached inside and pulled out the worn fabric tag. Brooks National Open. Walter took off his glasses. He didn't touch it.
He just read once, then again. Something like recognition settled into his face. I thought so. Maya looked at him sharply. You thought what?
That your feet didn't match the rest of the story. She almost laughed. What does that mean? The first week I saw Tyler crowd you near the cafe entrance. Walter gestured toward the path.
You shifted your stance before he even stepped close. Maya said nothing. You weren't scared. I was careful. That's different.
Yes. Walter looked at the tag again. National Open. Maya folded it back into her palm. Last year you win.
She didn't answer immediately. Walter gave her a look. That means yes. Maya sighed. Yes.
Undefeated in sanctioned collegiate matches. Walter leaned back. For several seconds, he said nothing at all. Then he looked toward the Grant Athletic Center. So that's why you never hit back.
Maya's expression hardened slightly. That's not the only reason. No. Walter nodded. It's because you know exactly what hitting back would cost. Yes.