Two things interrupted me at the same time.
The first was Mitch—clad in a fitted brown T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots—strolling through the door and scanning the room for me.
The second was my phone ringing. I let it shrill two times as I waved to catch Mitch’s attention before answering it. I mouthed an apology to Hannah, who shrugged and ducked her head.
“Liam Davis, Scribe.”
“Hi, this is Garret. I’m calling about the email.”
“Garret? Yes, yes. I am looking for any information I can get on The Raven.” Just that morning, an anonymous thank-you letter arrived at Scribe, addressed to The Raven. He’d saved again, and at no small cost. The victim worried The Raven had a torn wing.
Hannah’s head snapped up and she gave me a quizzical look. At the same time, Mitch slowed to a stop at my desk.
Garret breathed heavily down the line. “I don’t remember much. I was in the hospital for a few days afterward.”
“Anything you know might help me piece things together.”
“You want to find him?”
“Yes.”
Mitch looked curiously at my stapler, and more specifically at the eyes-and-mouth stickers decorating it. A Jack and Jill prank. Seeing I had no real friends, they’d stuck faces on all my office supplies—coffee cup, paper tray, tape holder. My office friends, they’d said.
It hadn’t bothered me much.
Until Mitch jokingly pressed against the end of the stapler as if it could speak. I swallowed an angry lump.
Mitch would want to know why I’d done it, and when I explained, he might just think me as pathetic and laughable as the rest of campus sniggering over my party page columns.
“Why?” Garret asked, bringing me back to the call. “This guy saved me, I don’t want to snitch and get him into trouble.”
“I don’t want that either.”
I might have initially wanted to expose him just so I could feel better about myself and secure the features editor position, but my incentive changed the moment I read the threat at Hannah’s desk.
The Raven’s gonna lose his wings
We’ll smile while he sings and sings
Then we’d love to watch him fly
Through a deep, dark, angry sky
I stared at the stack of Scribe magazines on the corner of my desk. From the swirls of colors, the haunting memory of Freddy’s fingers surfaced. I shivered.
“I only really remember his shit-kickers,” Garret said. “They were black and sort of fitting, and they sort of made me think the guy was gay. Which, hell, I know is a stereotype, but trust me I wouldn’t have minded a jot.”
“Thank you, Garret,” I said before ending the call.
Mitch frowned. “Interesting call?”
I snapped out of my chair. “Yes. Come with me.” I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and slipped it on. “Let’s go someplace we can talk.”
Mitch followed after me. “So . . . what’s up with all the stickers?”
“I’m going to get right to the point,” I said, taking a seat outside with an excellent view of the spot where I’d banged into Hunter the first time. Mitch sat beside me and handed over half the sandwich we’d bought from the cafeteria to share. A light breeze rustled the leaves.
The sun peeking through the clouds highlighted the copper in Mitch’s hair, which shone perfectly in the early shades of fall. He nibbled on his bread crust, staring toward a pair of squirrels scampering at the base of an oak. “I have Improv Theater soon, so to the point is good.”
I bit into the sandwich, and a blob of mayonnaise splattered onto the thigh of my tan slacks. Wiping it off, I said, “Are you interested in dating Hunter?”
Mitch spluttered, and crumbs flew everywhere. The squirrels stopped and took notice. Mitch studied me, biting his bottom lip. “I want to,” he finally said. “But . . . I mean, he’s . . . wow, he’s a charmer.”
“So what bothers you?”
His cheeks bloomed the color of the leaves. “It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t.”
Wouldn’t be right? I could honestly say I didn’t know what that meant, let alone how to respond. “Can you explain?”
“I mean, I . . . I have no idea how to date a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair!”
“Yes. That’s a pickle.” Hunter had made a bad decision employing me as his mole. How was I supposed to help when I barely knew how to date a girl, let alone a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair?
“It’s just, you know,” he said, “I question myself over everything. What if I say the wrong thing, like ‘let’s go for a walk’ or something stupid and I offend him?”
“Okay, stop right there,” I said, swiveling more in his direction. At least I could help on this point. “Granted I’ve only known Hunter a short while, but one thing I’m pretty sure about is that he’s not easily offended. Besides, ‘going for a walk’ is an expression. He’ll get that.”