Almost a week after it happened, Elizabeth told Jules she had gone to see Mr. O’Donnell. They were both folding laundry in the room. The topic came up because Mr. O’Donnell had called that morning, asking Elizabeth to run some errands. She’d agreed, but knew that Jules would eventually demand an explanation. She wasn’t good at lying, so she didn’t try to. Jules wasn’t happy when Elizabeth told her.

“You didn’t tell anyone where you went? What if you got hurt? What if he kidnapped you?” Jules asked. Elizabeth foresaw this reaction, though it exceeded her expectations. The worry annoyed her. She’d felt the same way when her parents scolded her for sneaking out. Beneath her fury lay an unidentifiable emotion. Her face was hot, and she couldn’t tell why.

She told Jules that everything had been fine and that nothing had gone wrong. For the next ten minutes, she iterated Jules’ caution regarding meeting him alone while still concussed.

“I’m not helpless, Jules; I can handle myself. I fought off an active shooter recently,” she said, using sarcasm to calm Jules down. It kind of worked.

“You failed to fight off an active shooter, Liz,” Jules retorted. She realized it sounded way worse than she intended, because she continued. “You were brave to try, but let’s be real with each other. Without O’Donnell’s intervention…” she trailed off.

“That’s my point. He saved my life; I feel like that makes him pretty safe to be around,” Elizabeth said. Jules’s comment was correct, but it hurt a bit to hear her say it. Jules took a deep breath.

“He gives me a bad feeling, Liz; something isn’t right with him. And because someone does a good deed doesn’t mean they can’t do worse ones. She stopped folding her clothes and walked over to Elizabeth, grabbing her arm.

“I want to make sure you’re not getting kidnapped or worse. I’m not mad that you went to see him; I’m sad that you didn’t tell me you were doing it. Next time you’re planning on doing something stupid, let me know first, please?” Jules asked.

Elizabeth heard every word, but was hyperaware Jules held her biceps and stared into her eyes as she asked for it. Elizabeth agreed, nodded, and stumbled over her words.

“Good,” Jules said, squeezing Elizabeth’s arm once before letting go. “Now what does he want you to do?”

An hour after finishing her laundry and placating Jules, Elizabeth headed to the parking lot. There, her beat-up red 2003 Toyota Corolla waited in the lot. Paint chipped, one headlight broken, and a huge scratch along the driver’s side. She had bought it from a family friend when she started school. It had already seen better days before she’d gotten her hands on it.

She hadn’t crashed it, though she’d come close a few times. Switching from California to Massachusetts drivers was a shock. California commuters were laid back. Boston drivers scared her-aggressive and fast, though better at using their blinkers than back home. She had to learn to drive defensively fast to avoid accidents.

She drove over to Boston Common, the park where he wanted to meet. In the early afternoon there were plenty of people out walking. By some miracle, she got a street parking spot.

On a bench near the suspension bridge overlooking the pond, she found him where he said he’d be. She’d never walked through the park; nature walking wasn’t her thing, but she couldn’t deny the park’s beauty. The trees were losing their leaves, and the fall hues made the chilly wind worth it. Mr. O’Donnell wore a navy-blue suit with a dark gray pea coat. No hat this time. A chessboard sat next to him on the bench. Instead of playing, he was reading a book. She couldn’t tell the title until she got closer.

“Is that Russian?” she asked him. He didn’t even look up, unfazed, despite not removing his eyes from the pages as she walked up.

“Da, doch’” he responded, “Ya chital voynu I mir.” The accent he stepped into was immediately recognizable, and the Russian slipped from his lips, as if he’d spoken it all his life. He closed his novel without marking his page. As he put it down, she spied the ring on his hand, the same as always, glowing infrequently. “War and Peace. Never read it in its original language. It’s not any better than the translation, if you were curious,” he said.

“How did you learn Russian?” Elizabeth asked. He continued to surprise her with how much he knew. She expected this feeling to return.

“I was a journalist during the Cold War, and a pretty good one, I might add,” he said with a proud smile.

He gestured to the bench next to him, across from the chessboard.

“You’ve played?” he asked.

Though the words formed a question, he stated it with conviction; its delivery was a statement of affirmation of his knowledge.

“With my grandfather, as a kid, yeah,” she said. “I was alright at it.”

She picked up the E pawn and moved it forward.

“I’m sure you were,” he said, sliding the C pawn to match.

“Is this what you do for fun? Come out to the park to read?” Elizabeth asked.

“Sounds depressing when you say it like that, doesn’t it?” He raised his hand when Elizabeth apologized, then moved another piece. “I’m pulling your leg. Yes, sometimes I do. It’s a quaint spot, and close to my house. I think the ducks are fond of me. The swans, however, are not.”

He was right; it was a lovely place to sit. The bench they sat on faced the duck island in the center. When it was warmer, the paddle boats would go up and down its length. Now, the frigid waters stood empty. The ducks and mute swans had all gone, having migrated south to beat the cold.

“You live on Beacon Street?” Elizabeth asked. It overlooked the Common. She didn’t know Boston that well, but she knew it was a pricey neighborhood.

“My house is on Mount Vernon Street. Only one over, a little more of a walk.” He spoke absent-mindedly, focused on the board.

“You must’ve been some journalist,” she said. He laughed.

“I don’t think anyone could be that good a reporter. No, I got fortunate. I made wise wagers during my youth, in Vegas. I had, as they say, ‘hot hands.’” He waved both of his hands in the air dramatically.

“There’s no way you made enough in Vegas to live on Mount Vernon Street,” Elizabeth retorted.

“Correct. I got bored with chance games and, more importantly, the casinos kicked me out. I tried my luck gambling on the stock market instead. Turns out, I’m better with investment than card counting.”

Elizabeth who knew Wall Street was complicated, and believed his straightforward comment was incorrect, even though she couldn’t verify it. Getting that lucky was unlikely, but not impossible. She supposed he could have been engaging in insider trading. She decided it didn’t matter.

They continued to talk throughout their game, then through the following one, and the one after it. They played for over an hour, until Elizabeth came close to drawing him, but blundered at the last minute.

“Break?” he asked, seeing her exasperation.

“Break,” she responded, annoyed.

“You improved a lot in those games; I’m impressed,” he said.

“Didn’t you have errands for me to do? Or did you just call me to humiliate me in a game you dwarf me in skill?” She half-joked. O’Donnell laughed anyway.

“I almost forgot; it’s been a while since I’ve played with a real competitive spirit,” he said. He reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet, and from it a wad of cash with a note.

“I’d love if you went grocery shopping for me. Walking for that long hurts my knees. My address and the list also appear there.”

He handed her the paper and the money. She compared the size of the list to the amount of money; he’d given her too much for the number of things he wanted. She asked him why.

“I’d rather you had more than needed. You should never have to pay for my groceries,” he explained.

Elizabeth said a quick goodbye and headed back to her car. A trip to the nearest supermarket retrieved everything he needed. She wasn’t used to grocery shopping; her parents always did it, and she didn’t have a kitchen in her dorm. She got lost a few times and took about an hour. When she arrived at his place, she handed James the extra money, around $250. He shook his head.

“Keep it. The fruits of your humiliation,” he said with a smile. She objected: three hours of work didn’t deserve that much. “It either goes to you or back in my wallet to sit for next week. Money’s meant to be spent.”

After a few more attempts to refuse, she realized nothing would sway him. And she needed the cash to replace savings depleted by the semester’s expenses. She thanked him.

“If you’re free tomorrow, I have some packages that need to go to the post office,” he offered. She said she’d check and left.

“A pleasure as always, Ms. Brown.”

Editor: Lucy Cafiero