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I was twenty-six years old and working as a gym teacher at a private school for wealthy, troubled children. My day began at ten a.m. and ended shortly after three when the parents arrived to pick up their unruly offspring at the playing field after school.

Andrew Dent was a small, wiry fifth-grade boy who would never stop moving. He ran in circles on the sidelines during the kickball games, and when I asked him to stand still he would jump up and down in one place and weave his head from side to side. His mother, a slender, horse-faced woman in her forties, had taken to strapping him down in the backseat of her car for the ride home.

"He even moves in his sleep," she told me one time. "We put up walls around his bed."

On most days the children would all be gone by 3:30, and then I would clean up the equipment and head home to see my girlfriend Peggy before she headed off to work in the evening. She was a waitress and we had recently started living together, to save on rent. While at work, Peggy would sniff cocaine off the dinner plates, then come home frazzled and demand sex in order to sleep.

"I need an orgasm," she'd say, "or I'll stay up past dawn."

Peggy had red hair and freckles all over her body. She would masturbate vigorously as we had sex, and sometimes I wondered if I was a necessary part of the procedure. She'd grab my ass though, if I tried to pull out, so I supposed I was important in some way. I was still learning about sex and foreplay, and on the nights when Peggy wasn't too strung out from the coke she'd tell me what she knew.

"Be more gentle," she'd instruct. "Caress, don't rub."

One afternoon Mrs. Dent was late to pick up Andrew, and he and I were left alone on the ball field. He began running circles around the bases, and I was tired from the night before with Peggy, so I fell asleep. When I woke up Andrew was standing over me with blood dripping from his chin.

"I fell down," he told me.

His chin was split wide open. He pushed the skin back so I could see the pale flesh beneath it.

"Don't do that," I told him, grabbing his hand.

We went into the washroom and cleaned things out. Andrew was remarkably calm. He seemed to feel almost no pain at all. His shirt was covered in bright red blood. I pressed wet paper towels up to the cut, trying to stop the bleeding. The nurse's

office was closed, and the first-aid kit was full of useless little Band-Aids which soaked through the moment I applied them to Andrew's wound.

"I think we need to go to the hospital," I told him.

"What about my Mom?" he asked.

Gustavas, the school custodian, was wandering around the hallways with his mop. I told him to tell Mrs. Dent we'd gone to the hospital, and not to worry.

"I'm not worried," said Gustavas.

"No, not you," I said. "Tell Mrs. Dent not to worry."

"Okay, sure."

We drove to the hospital, where they kept us waiting for about half an hour. They were in no hurry, I think, because Andrew seemed so calm. He just paced about in a small circle holding the soggy red towel up to his chin.

When the doctor saw him she said, "Oh, it looks like someone needs some stitches."

"Yes, I do," said Andrew.

Then Mrs. Dent walked in, and she was just as calm as Andrew about the whole thing. I'd expected her to be upset at the sight of Andrew and his blood-stained shirt, but she just took it all in stride.

"I'm sorry I was late to pick him up," she said.

"That's all right," I said.

Mrs. Dent looked particularly striking that afternoon. Earlier I'd described her as "horse-faced," and while that was technically true, I should say that she was on the most attractive end of this spectrum. I believe she'd been an athlete in college, a swimmer or long-distance runner, and she had an amazing set of long legs. I hadn't really seen much of them, but on that day she was wearing a tight-fitting dress and high heels. That's probably why I found her striking. She'd been at a social function, I guessed. I could smell a little alcohol on her breath.

The doctor asked Andrew to lie still for the stitches, but he couldn't do it. He kept rolling his head from side to side on the table.

The doctor asked Mrs. Dent if she wanted him strapped down or sedated, and Mrs. Dent said, "Sedate him, please." So they gave him a shot.

Andrew fell asleep, and they stitched up his chin. I stayed in the room as they were doing it. Mrs. Dent said it was okay if I did. I'd never seen someone sew up a wound before, and it looked just as if the doctor were sewing up a ripped shirt, except that it was skin instead of cloth. Afterward, Andrew kept falling back to sleep and stumbling as he walked. They'd over-medicated him.

"Would you help me get him in the car?" Mrs. Dent asked.

"Sure," I said.

Together we lifted him into the back seat, where he fell asleep with his face pressed against the window.

"Are you going to be able to get him inside?" I asked her.

"Sure, I think so," said Mrs. Dent. She rubbed her head and let out a sigh. Her hair was messed up now, and I wondered if she wasn't a little drunk. Maybe not drunk, just tipsy.

"How about I drive you both home," I suggested.

"Oh, no, I . . . I don't think that's necessary . . . "

She stood there holding her keys out as she said this, and eventually I understood that I was supposed to take them from her hand.

"Thank you," she said to me. "Thank you very much."

Their place was a nice, well-lit house surrounded by several other big, bright houses just like it. Mrs. Dent lived alone with Andrew here. She was divorced, and Andrew's father, a former rugby player from England, had taken a job overseas.

"Please come inside," said Mrs. Dent.