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Anyway, by 3 that afternoon, I’d mustered up the courage to go for a walk. I slipped on my coat, grabbed my dark glasses, and headed outside with my cane in hand. It was only the second time I’d gone walking with my eyes closed. I’d already committed to memory the number of steps it took to walk along the hall to the front door and then down the outside stairs to the sidewalk. I tried not to cheat and open up my eyes as I walked along. I didn’t intend to go very far, because if I didn’t get home by dusk, I really couldn’t see my hand in front of my face—unless I had my mega flashlight with me, which I didn’t.

It hadn’t snowed yet, so the sidewalks were clear. I figured I’d walk a couple of blocks, maybe as far as the convenience store across the park, and then call it a day. As I came to what I thought must be about midpoint in the block, I heard footsteps behind me. Before I knew what was happening, I was shoved to the ground. “What the—”

“Shut up!” snarled a young voice.

I twisted around, tried to make out the face, but it was just a blur.

“Your wallet. Now.” He slammed a boot into my ribs just to make sure I knew he was serious. “The wallet!”

I yanked it out of my back pocket. All I could think of was that I didn’t want him to hurt me. He could have whatever he wanted. Before I could give it to him, he grabbed it out of my hand.

“Hey,” came a different voice, one that seemed to appear out of nowhere. This voice was equally young, but stronger. More confident. “The dude’s blind. Give it back.”

“Shit, man! Get the fuck away from me.”

I looked behind me and saw the second kid. The late-afternoon sun glinted off something metal in his hand.

“That thing real?” asked my attacker, backing up a few steps.

“Give him the wallet back or you’ll find out.” The second kid’s voice was taunting. Arrogant. But he was on my side so I cheered him on.

“Fuck.” I felt the wallet hit my chest as the attacker sprinted off.

I was still dazed, but I sat up, touching the scrape on the palm of my hand. It had been chewed raw from hitting the concrete.

“Come on, man, I’ll help you. Get you home.”

My rescuer put a strong hand under my arm as I staggered to my feet. I was a good foot taller than he was, but to my frightened eyes, he looked immensely young and robust.

“Lean on me,” said the kid, seeing that I was unsteady. “Where do you live?”

“The Standhope. At the end of the block.”

He picked up my cane and pressed it into my hand, and then together we walked slowly back down the sidewalk to my apartment. We didn’t talk until we reached the locked security door.

“Key?”

I fished for it in my pocket.

Entering the hallway, he asked my apartment number. I was grateful for the strong arm and never even considered that he might be as big a threat to me as the kid who’d knocked me down. Naïve is another one of my more admirable qualities.

After getting me settled in my Laz-E-Boy, he took off his coat. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Through the kitchen. It’s next to the bedroom.”

I wished he’d turned on a light. The apartment was growing dark. Something inside me warned not to let on that I still had some part of my vision left. He seemed to have a certain sympathy for blind people. If he knew I could see, it occurred to me, his sympathy might evaporate. I kept my dark glasses on so he couldn’t see my eyes. I wanted to be able to study him without him knowing it. He returned a minute later with a washcloth, some antiseptic cream, and a bandage.

“Here,” he said, switching on the overhead light. He washed off my palm with the soapy cloth. After applying the cream, he placed a bandage over the biggest scrape. “You don’t want that to get infected.”

“Thanks,” I said, still a little dazed, and also a bit surprised at his gentleness and concern.

“You diabetic? That why you’re blind?”

“No. An eye disease.”

With the top light on, I could see a little better now. I watched him move around the living room. I guessed he was about fifteen. He had a stocky build and lank blond hair, and a dark patch on his forearm that I assumed was a tattoo. On his feet was a pair of bright red gym shoes. In the rear pocket of his jeans was an ominous bulge. That’s when I remembered the weapon I thought I had seen in his hand. Without thinking, I said, “Are you carrying a knife—or a gun?”

“Toy gun. But it looks real.”

In my forty-two years as a teacher, I’d developed a sixth sense about teenagers. I didn’t believe him. “You could get hurt carrying that thing, even if it is a toy.”

“I can handle myself. Besides, this is a rough neighborhood. A guy’s got a right to protect himself.”

I lowered my head, but kept watching.

“My dad was diabetic,” he said as he checked out my CD collection. “I used to take care of him.”

“Used to?”

“He died a couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I miss him—miss talking to him.”