The last letter made it clear that “A” was a teacher, but Ben didn’t know if his current pen pal was a man or a woman, young or old. Perhaps he should investigate, now that he had more information, maybe finagle a visit to the school on a weekday and ask which teachers used Room 204. But wouldn’t he look suspicious? A thirty-year-old man snooping around?
Besides, Ben wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He wasn’t ready to lose the mystery that made these letters so special. He knew that it might just be a trivial diversion for “A.” Maybe they simply pitied him. But he didn’t want them to disappear.
The handful of friends whom Ben had trusted with the news of his string—all long-stringers themselves—had kept in touch with him frequently, at the beginning, always calling or texting to check in. But lately the outreach had been slowly fading. Even Damon, who had encouraged Ben to join the group back in April, used to inquire every Monday morning about the previous night’s session, but he had missed the past two weeks in a row.
Perhaps they all felt powerless to help Ben, or uncomfortable in their grief, or guilty about their own long strings. Maybe they just didn’t know what to say.
But I’ll still be coming to this classroom every Sunday night, in case you find yourself here this summer.
And, if not, then I wish you the best of luck, and I hope you find peace in your decision, whether you look at your string or not.
—B
Ben waited until the group had dispersed and he was left alone in the empty classroom. He pulled the sheet of paper out of his satchel, folded in half, with the letter A written on the front. Then he bent down to set it like a miniature tent pitched at the foot of the bookshelf.
When Ben turned around, Hank was standing behind him, puzzled.
“I think I forgot my headphones,” Hank explained.
“Oh, um, I can help you look for them,” offered Ben.
The two men filled the awkward silence by shuffling around the room, necks tilted down.
“Do you mind if I ask what you were doing with that piece of paper?” Hank finally ventured.
Ben thought for a moment. “Would this be covered under doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Sure, why not?” Hank laughed.
So Ben told Hank about the letter he had left behind during an earlier session, and the mysterious reply he received.
“And now I’m sort of writing back and forth with a total stranger,” Ben explained. “Which I realize sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
Hank squinted curiously at Ben. “You really have no idea who’s writing to you?”
Ben shook his head. “My best guess is that it’s one of the staff at the school,” he said. “But I think they might also host some AA meetings and a few other groups here on different nights, so I suppose it could be one of those members, too.”
Hank shrugged and smiled reassuringly. “Well, I guess the only way you’ll ever find out is if you keep writing back.”
“Thanks,” said Ben.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel crazy.”
“We’re all in uncharted waters here. It’s hard to call any reaction crazy.” Hank peered under the table where Sean had set up snacks.
“You work at Memorial Hospital, right? I’m sorry about what happened there.”
“I actually quit at the end of May. But I had already given notice before the shooting,” Hank said. “I just realized I can’t recall what you do?”
“I’m an architect,” said Ben.
“Oh wow. Have you designed any buildings I’d recognize?”
“Not yet,” Ben said wistfully. “One in progress, but upstate.”
Hank sat back down in one of the plastic chairs. “What made you want to be an architect?”
Slightly surprised, Ben sat next to him. “I’m not really sure,” he said. “But I didn’t have any siblings growing up, and both my parents worked, so I spent a fair amount of time doodling little houses and towns and imagining the people who lived there.”
Hank frowned at him with pity.
“Oh no, don’t get me wrong,” Ben stammered. “My parents are great, and it wasn’t like I was lonely all the time. I just really enjoyed drawing those tiny worlds.”
“And now you want to make bigger worlds?”
Ben laughed. “Let’s just say that school wasn’t always easy for me, and back then I thought that if I could create something as big as a New York skyscraper, it would be impossible to ever feel small.”