Ira Glass

But I just stayed there in the ravine.

I told myself that I didn't feel sorry at all for stupid old Timothy Stokes.

But then I would remember the confused look in his eyes as I had abandoned him to his fate, to all the unimaginable things that would be done to him in the fabulous corridors of the special school.

I kept recalling something that I had heard Timothy's mother say to mine just a couple of days earlier.

You know, Althea Stokes had told my mother in that big, sad, donkey voice of hers.

Your little Paul is Timothy's only friend.

I decided to spend the afternoon in the ravine.

The sun started down behind the embankment, and the moon, rising early, emerged from the rooftops of the houses somebody was putting up in front of the school.

The moon, I noticed, was not quite full.

I didn't hear the scrape of footsteps until they were just above my head.

Paul, said Mrs. Gladfelter, leaning over the lip of the ravine, hands against her thighs.

Paul Covell, what on earth are you doing out here?

Nothing, I said.

I didn't hear the bell.

Paul, she said.

Now listen to me, Paul.

I need your help.

With what?

I didn't think she looked angry, but her face was upside down and it was hard to tell.

with Timothy, Paul.