keys. She felt around for them in the dark, wondering why there was no light like there usually was. Something sharp cut her hand, and she jerked it back with an involuntary gasp of pain. As she heard the metallic echo of feet on the stairway, her hand landed on the keys. She shoved her key into the lock, turned the key, then pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She quickly locked the deadbolt and chain, then leaned against the door, coughing and panting for air.
Julia steeled herself and then turned to look out the peephole. Just then, the apartment door across the hall from her opened, and a group of boisterous college girls spilled out into the hall. The hooded man walked past the girls, past her apartment, and around the corner into another section of the building.
Once she caught her breath, she remained in the doorway for several minutes, uncertain of what to do. She called Austin, but she hung up when she heard the voicemail greeting. Then she felt foolish. The guy probably lived in the building. She knew only a small fraction of her neighbors. She told herself that she was so traumatized from the other night, she must have overdramatized it all.
Mustering her courage, Julia walked to the kitchen and turned on the light. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and guzzled it down. Some of the water spilled out of her mouth and down her neck. She slid a hand across her neck, and it came away slick with water and sweat. She pulled out one of her two red Naugahyde kitchen chairs and sat facing the front door, staring. She imagined a body hurling at the door, the doorjamb splintering, the door flying open, and the guy in the hoodie rushing toward her. Julia shook from head to toe.
She became aware of a ticking sound. She looked at her retro diner clock. Midnight. She rarely came home this late on a weeknight, so the guy was probably just a neighbor she’d never seen. She walked to her front window, where she pulled the curtain aside a tentative crack. Shocked, she pulled it back all the way. Now she knew why her doorway had been dark: the light fixture and bulb in the outdoor hallway were broken. She looked at her hand holding the curtain and let go. Blood stained the curtain and dripped from her palm, where she’d cut herself on the broken glass that was lying on the hallway floor. It hadn’t been a flimsy fixture, but thick, foggy glass. Someone had broken it on purpose.
She realized the kitchen light was on, and her body was making a shadow against the curtain that anyone outside could see. She dropped to the ground, quivering, and didn’t move until the morning light cast its rays through the cracks in the curtain.
T EN
T
he medieval great hall is cavernous, with thick stone walls, elegant marble columns, and high arched ceilings. Rich tapestries depicting detailed royal legends and biblical events cover the walls from floor to ceiling. Her wandering eyes turn from the room’s distractions back to the open book and half-blank parchment, which sit atop the hand-carved cedar table before her. She dips a quill into a pot of ink, taps away the excess, and writes three words. Then she dips the quill again. She feels no frustration at the slowness of this process and doesn’t feel puzzled to find herself writing in French.
Yet some part of her knows that the only portion of this scene that should feel familiar to her is that she’s writing about the soul. This time it’s not about the pineal gland or electricity or PCP, but about something Aristotle called the rational soul—what it is, where it resides, how it functions, and why it’s important in the life of man.
Man? Why just man?
She dips the quill again and adds the words, “and woman.” She understands that there are some, scholars and religious clerics alike, who would find her addition of that word heretical. She turns to cast a questioning look over her shoulder at Pierre. He smiles and nods encouragement.
“Why
Julia steeled herself and then turned to look out the peephole. Just then, the apartment door across the hall from her opened, and a group of boisterous college girls spilled out into the hall. The hooded man walked past the girls, past her apartment, and around the corner into another section of the building.
Once she caught her breath, she remained in the doorway for several minutes, uncertain of what to do. She called Austin, but she hung up when she heard the voicemail greeting. Then she felt foolish. The guy probably lived in the building. She knew only a small fraction of her neighbors. She told herself that she was so traumatized from the other night, she must have overdramatized it all.
Mustering her courage, Julia walked to the kitchen and turned on the light. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and guzzled it down. Some of the water spilled out of her mouth and down her neck. She slid a hand across her neck, and it came away slick with water and sweat. She pulled out one of her two red Naugahyde kitchen chairs and sat facing the front door, staring. She imagined a body hurling at the door, the doorjamb splintering, the door flying open, and the guy in the hoodie rushing toward her. Julia shook from head to toe.
She became aware of a ticking sound. She looked at her retro diner clock. Midnight. She rarely came home this late on a weeknight, so the guy was probably just a neighbor she’d never seen. She walked to her front window, where she pulled the curtain aside a tentative crack. Shocked, she pulled it back all the way. Now she knew why her doorway had been dark: the light fixture and bulb in the outdoor hallway were broken. She looked at her hand holding the curtain and let go. Blood stained the curtain and dripped from her palm, where she’d cut herself on the broken glass that was lying on the hallway floor. It hadn’t been a flimsy fixture, but thick, foggy glass. Someone had broken it on purpose.
She realized the kitchen light was on, and her body was making a shadow against the curtain that anyone outside could see. She dropped to the ground, quivering, and didn’t move until the morning light cast its rays through the cracks in the curtain.
T EN
T
he medieval great hall is cavernous, with thick stone walls, elegant marble columns, and high arched ceilings. Rich tapestries depicting detailed royal legends and biblical events cover the walls from floor to ceiling. Her wandering eyes turn from the room’s distractions back to the open book and half-blank parchment, which sit atop the hand-carved cedar table before her. She dips a quill into a pot of ink, taps away the excess, and writes three words. Then she dips the quill again. She feels no frustration at the slowness of this process and doesn’t feel puzzled to find herself writing in French.
Yet some part of her knows that the only portion of this scene that should feel familiar to her is that she’s writing about the soul. This time it’s not about the pineal gland or electricity or PCP, but about something Aristotle called the rational soul—what it is, where it resides, how it functions, and why it’s important in the life of man.
Man? Why just man?
She dips the quill again and adds the words, “and woman.” She understands that there are some, scholars and religious clerics alike, who would find her addition of that word heretical. She turns to cast a questioning look over her shoulder at Pierre. He smiles and nods encouragement.
“Why
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