These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

About half a dozen of the dorm’s residents, all black, had with them in some kind of vague captivity the guy who hit Zan. “Tell him,” one of them commanded. Weaving where he stood, too stoned to make sense, the assailant mumbled, “Sorry.”

“He’s sorry,” the other student translated to Zan.

“O.K.,” said Zan.

“Don’t call the police.”

“O.K.”

“Promise not to call the police.”

“I’m not calling the police. I am,” Zan pointed at the dorm in the distance, “going back inside and selling this person her pizza.”