I scanned the board. Fuckin' Logan was in my group. Small blessing he wasn't elected to ask her the last round of questions after I convinced this cute Italian girl named Cecily to agree with me about an eating disorder, even though that's not at all what I believed was Everly's condition. Nonetheless, they bought it and I was elected to ask questions. We made a list and I decided then, Logan was an even bigger asshole than I originally had him pegged. He, of course, wanted me to ask her questions that had very little to do with forming a diagnosis and everything to do with a weak attempt to embarrass me.

The ten seconds it took to reach Everly felt as if time stretched on forever. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, pulled the sleeves of her sweater around her fingers, looked anywhere but at me. My palm was turned upward when I sat. The list buried itself in my coat pocket.

"May I?" Nervously she rested her hand in mine. "Everly Anne, your fingers rival popsicles." I stared at our hands. Yin-and-Yang. My long fingers to her short. My skin smooth against the scars of her old wounds. My study-bitten-down nails to her carefully filed ones.

I clasped her hand between both of mine in an effort to warm her up. The scars lined her skin and it was impossible to not notice the top portion of her left pinkie was amputated.

Everly cleared her throat. "You know I'm just . . . so tasty. I can't help myself sometimes."

In some ways I was better prepared for today's differential, and in others I was completely lost. I knew I had a log of questions I was supposed to ask in addition to the list my group compiled. Lines I should have filled in carefully with meticulous notes, but the "just" stared me in the face every day I sat in class and watched Logan and the others lead one torturous round of meaningless questions after the next. So I just had blank spaces and voids where they had generic answers. But I also had Everly's hand and interest, and at that exact moment I couldn't decipher which was more important or telling.

"Is there anyone who would refute that?"

She rolled her eyes. "As if I'd share."

"No one worthy or are you just too young and your Pop won't let you date yet?"

"I'm an adult. Nineteen whole years under my belt." She scanned the desk for my laptop but it was only us. "But no," Everly looked up at me, "There's no one worthy either. Not yet."

It was a gift from the Just God that Timothy Brighton wasn't grading based on overheard differential questions that weren't on his log. "Just what exactly would make a person qualified to taste you?"

"Well," she began, "he'd have to be okay with cold hands, for one."

I shrugged. "Seems easy enough to fix." My hands held hers firmer.

"And not care about my cannibalism habits. He'd have to be a sharer."

"Is that why you were too full to eat your cake in the hospital? Snuck too many finger appetizers beforehand?"

"No, I stopped chewing off body parts when I was a child. One doctor-he was a really wonderful man, but doesn't practice any more-used to make me wear oven mitts on my hands. Apparently I found my fingers to be particularly scrumptious. That bothered . . . some of the other doctors. Their treatment for that was a little more severe."

I leaned closer, my fingers inched further up Everly's arm, to her wrist, under the cuff of her sweater. "Any other parts of you taste good?" So much for Logan's plan to humiliate-Everly's eyes deepened as she looked at me, unbothered, ultra-touched by my willingness to play a game and drop the interview-style probing bullshit she despised.

Half of me wanted to look over my shoulder and make sure Timothy wasn't listening. The other half wanted to shout my questions across the room so Logan could hear me ask them and Everly answer without a single bit of hassle, let alone hesitation.

"My lips," she answered, "I used to bite my lips a lot."

I stared at her as she looked up, tracing over her face until I reached Everly's mouth. One of my hands slipped from hers, which allowed my index finger the freedom to touch the faint scar under her lower lip.

"Time," Timothy called out.

But I couldn't leave right away. I stared at her for a moment longer, my hand gave a squeeze to hers. "You feel much warmer now."

"I'll have to take your word for it I guess," she admitted quietly.

"You can't feel the warmth of my hands?" I asked.

"I feel your warmth just fine." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I guess I can see how that word gets under your skin."

"No," I told her, "you're right about it. What you wrote for me is right."

"But it's not the truth."

"Then why did you tell it to me?"

Everly looked down. "You have to go back to your seat."

Timothy stared sternly. I rose from my spot, but she quietly called my name. "Do you know where the old train line is?"

I nodded.

"You can find a lot of answers on old trains," she said. "History leads to stories, and stories lead to wonderment. Wonderment is the Christmas of life."

As Everly sat with the other four groups I pulled up New York's old train line on my laptop. Back when everything was needful and crafted. Back when women crossed their legs and had gentlemen suitors. Back when steel was magic, lightning-fast, and the only way.

And once again, I had seen this place before. My family had been the sturdy foundation that rode trains and traveled towns. Fell in love on shooting stars, and gulped dreams. I was once a part of this world built on hope, faith and creation.

But one day . . . it all just fell apart.

I Was Never that Much of a Child Mrs. Rossinburg apologized as soon as I got out of my car.

Across the street my father Andrew was being restrained and questioned by two cops. One of them I recognized as Officer Stroud. He was a rookie with a really cool badge when I first met him. Today he was twenty pounds too heavy, shades from the color green, and cuffing a man who he once let weep on his shoulder.

"I didn't call them," she regretfully stated. "Patty two houses down saw him banging on my door and got scared. I tried to tell them he wasn't bothering me, but they won't listen."

"Don't worry about it," I assured, "I'm glad you called me."

I crossed the street with a weak attempt to keep my frustration under lock. "That's my father," I announced. "I'll take care of him if that's all right."

Officer Stroud left my father with his partner and pulled me aside. "This is the fourth complaint about Andrew this month. People like their peace and quiet in the morning, son."

"I know, I'm sorry, it won't happen again. He's just . . . having a rough time. It'll pass. Always does."

"Look," Stroud sighed, "I'm sorry about what happened to your mother, Callum, she was a great lady and the doc has every right to be upset about it, but I can't keep letting him off the hook. NYPD is under serious scrutiny right now, and even the littlest indiscretions are making us look incompetent. Next time I'll be forced to lock him up." He exhaled hard again. "Not to sound callous but it's been over ten years. That's a long time to grieve."

Suddenly I didn't feel so friendly toward Officer Stroud. "Can I just take him inside our house? He'll probably just pass out. I have class in thirty minutes and I'll get locked out if I'm not on time." And miss Everly.

"This time I'll let you, but remember what I said." He instructed his partner to un-cuff Andrew. "So, how many more years until I can call you doctor, anyhow?"

"I'm almost done with third year, and then it's just fourth and passing boards."

He slapped my shoulder. "You'll do fine. Your father was one of the best."

Was . . .

I shook my head at him and realized that I had been wrong. Officer Stroud was still so very green. "Andrew never lost his brilliance," I said. "He only lost her."

Getting him into bed was a bit like fighting with a child, but at least he was a happy child. Vodka meant he was taking the edge off, whiskey meant he was looking for the end. A bottle of half-empty clear sat on his desk next to stacks of papers and books. He was always trying to figure it out- how he could have saved her.

"Come on, Pop. Get under the covers. I have class soon." He hung on my shoulder, weighing me down as he slumped into bed.