“I’ve seen you around. Your friend is on the sixth floor, Isaac said.” “He was hurt in a car wreck. Spine is severely damaged. Doctors said he might walk again, but it’s going to take a long time. He’s coming home tomorrow.” “Poppa hasn’t walked or talked in three years. He will never walk. I want to take him home, but my Mother, his Daughter, keeps paying for him to stay here. She says Poppa is better off here and that I should return to college. But I won’t. I want to be wherever he is as long as he lives. I love this man--have loved him since I can remember. My mother and father galloped all over Europe. Poppa spent his life’s savings to rescue me from a boarding school in England where boys beat me up and tried to do other things to me. I was eight, lying on my bunk crying one night. A window hung behind my bed. I heard a tapping against it and thought it was a tree branch. It kept going on. I finally rose and looked out. I almost screamed with joy. The old man put his finger to his lips and went to work on the lock quietly like the thief he was. Soon he had that window opened and pulled me and the bed sheets through. We took a boat back to America because he was too afraid to go to the Airports. It took us three weeks to get back to his shack here in Houston. He raised me until I was eighteen. He drank sometimes and he whipped me a couple of times, but he loved me. So what is a few years to give him? I think of his acts of love, not his drinking or his stealing, or his whippings.“ Evans stared at Isaac as he spoke. His teeth were white and slightly larger than baby teeth. His eyes were bright with passion and tears.