Time passed.

It had been five months or more since the original incident with Wyatt. Roxanne, the college counselor for students with special needs, and I spoke briefly in the hall to discuss the special need of one of my current students. As usual, I had been assigned another ninety writing students, and I was too busy to dwell upon problems in the past. The matter of Wyatt had been transformed by time and had become just one more funny story in the underground anecdotal history of education and customer satisfaction at Techno, and in my conversation with Roxanne the subject of his crime and punishment did not come up. Over the years I had consulted the special needs counselor dozens of times about students experiencing difficulty in my classes, students I knew or suspected to be illiterate, dyslexic, hard of hearing, deaf, homeless, emotionally disturbed, drunk, addicted to drugs, depressed, or suicidal. I can't remember specifically what our conversation this time was about, but for whatever reason Roxanne felt apologetic about her inability in this instance to provide the knowledge or assistance I wanted. We concluded our business, and we had both begun to walk away to our appointed places, she to her office in counseling, I to my faculty cubicle, when she turned and called my name.

"Yes?" I smiled and waited.

"I have no special training or education in special needs," she said.

Huh?

Puzzled, I waited for more.

"My title just came with the job. No one else wanted it."

We stood watching one another from a distance. Speechless, dumfounded, I could think of nothing to say. Memories of disjointed essays, the shocking confessions of trauma, dysfunction, and abuse, the faces and tears of their piteous and disabled authors rose in my mind, Wyatt among them. It had been Roxanne, Techno special needs counselor, to whom all of them had been referred.

Oh well, I nodded.

Oh well, smiled Roxanne.

We waggled our fingers weakly in a wave and went each our separate tangled way.

Not counting the jokes and guffaws, the countless retellings of the now tall tales every time any student complained about a grade—"Give him an A and a hit list!"—it was almost two years before the subject of Wyatt was broached again. Then one day in the small faculty coffee room I overheard a conversation between a faculty secretary and the director of the college learning center. From what the two women had said, I gathered that although I had not seen him myself Wyatt had been present on campus at some time in the not too distant past. I interrupted their conversation and asked.

"Oh, yes," the woman said. "The college let him back in."

"I had no idea," I said.

"Oh, yes," said the other. "Everyone knew."

I stared at the two of them.

"You weren't told," she added. "We didn't want to alarm you."