“That is so annoying!” I yelled at the screen. “I’m not injured. I’m fine!” Simon Green shrugged.

“They have no right releasing my name,” I grumbled.

“Last spring, Anya Balanchine was arrested for the shooting of her own cousin, who had been trying to shoot Anya Balanchine’s boyfriend at the time, William Delacroix, the son of acting District Attorney Charles Delacroix.”

“His name is Win!” I objected.

“Although Charles Delacroix initially led in the polls, in the last month his major challenger, the Independent Party candidate, Bertha Sinclair, has narrowed the gap to five points. It’s too early to see how this latest incident will impact voters.”

“Like it’s his fault a bus with his picture on it hit that girl,” Simon Green commented.

A nurse knocked on the doorframe. “There’s a man here for you,” she said to me. “Is it okay if I let him in?”

“Yes, we’re expecting him.”

The nurse went to fetch Mr. Kipling.

I sat down on the side of Simon Green’s hospital bed. This whole day had been ridiculously frustrating and yet, I had to count my blessings. That girl had been my age and I’m sure she hadn’t woken up this morning thinking she was going to die. Blessing number nine: At least I haven’t been hit by a bus and decapitated. Despite everything, I started to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Simon Green asked.

“I’m just glad—” I started to say, and then Simon Green cut me off. “Hey, that’s not Mr. Kipling!” he said.

I turned. Through the window in Simon Green’s hospital room, I saw Win. He was wearing his Trinity uniform. Win waved at me.

“I’ll only be a moment,” I said to Simon Green. I stood up, straightened my skirt, and went out to the hallway.

“You look pretty good for a gal who’s seriously injured,” Win greeted me. His voice was casual. “You wore that to your cousin’s wedding.”

I looked down at my jacket, which was stained with Simon Green’s blood. “I’ll never be able to wear it again.” It would not be the first (or the last) of my clothing to meet such an end. I offered him my hand to shake but he embraced me instead. It was a hard embrace, one that hurt my still sore neck, one that lasted too long. “I was on the bus but they got everything else wrong,” I said.

“I can see that.”

“Why are you here?” I asked.

Win shook his head. “I was nearby when I heard about the accident. And I wanted to make sure you weren’t dying. We’re still friends, aren’t we, Anya?”

I didn’t know if we were friends. “Where’s your girlfriend?” Win told me she was in the lobby.

“And she doesn’t mind that you’re here?”

“No, Allie knows that you are important to me.”

Allie. The l’s replaced the n’s, and it was like I had never existed. “You shouldn’t be here,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Because…” I couldn’t make myself say all the reasons. Because we didn’t belong to each other anymore. Because it hurt me to be near him. Because I had promised his father. Because his father had the ability to make my life very difficult if I didn’t keep my promise.

“Anya, if you thought I was dying, wouldn’t you come?” Win asked.

I was still considering this question when Mr. Kipling arrived. Upon seeing Win, Mr. Kipling looked more than a little nonplussed. “Why are you here?” Mr. Kipling spat at him.

“I’m going now,” Win said.

“Be careful how you leave, son. The paparazzi have just arrived. They’re probably looking for a shot of an injured Anya Balanchine, but I bet they’d settle for a shot of the acting district attorney’s son. And you know what would really drive everyone mad with delight? A shot of you and Anya together.”

Win said that he had learned a secret way out of the hospital from when he’d stayed there last spring and that that was how he and Alison would go. “No one will ever know I was here.”

“Good. Do that. Now,” Mr. Kipling ordered. “Anya, I’m going to go see how Simon is doing but I don’t want you to go home without me. I should be there to shield you from the reporters.”

Mr.Kipling went into Simon’s room.

“Well,” Win began once we were alone. He stood up straight and took my hand in both of his. “I am relieved that you are well,” he said in a strangely formal way.

“Um, okay. I am relieved that … you are relieved.”

He released my hand. As he turned away, he stumbled a bit over his cane. “I was hoping for a more elegant exit,” he said.

I smiled, reminding myself that I didn’t love him one bit, and then I went back into Simon Green’s room.

It was almost nine by the time Mr. Kipling and I were finally in the elevator and on our way out of the hospital. “I’ve got a car waiting for us. If there are any reporters still out there, let me do the talking,” Mr. Kipling said.

“There she is!”

There were probably only a handful of cameras, but the flashes were still blinding in the darkness.

“Anya, are you glad to be out of the hospital?” one of the reporters called.

Mr. Kipling walked in front of me. “Anya is happy to have escaped serious injury,” he said. “She’s had a very long day, folks, and she just wants to go home.” He led me by my elbow toward the curb, where the car was parked.

“Anya, Anya, how was Liberty?” another reporter yelled.

“Give us a quote about Charles Delacroix! Do you hold him accountable for the bus accident? Do you think he’ll win the election?”

Mr. Kipling had gotten into the car, and I was about to follow him when something stopped me. “Wait,” I said. “I do have something I want to say.”

“Anya,” Mr. Kipling whispered, “what in the world are you doing?”

“The girl who died today. She was my age,” I said. “She was crossing the street and then she was gone. I am sorry for her friends, her family, and especially her parents. It is a tragedy. I would hope that the fact that an infamous person was riding on the bus wouldn’t take away from that.”

I got into the car, then pulled the door shut.

Mr. Kipling patted me on the shoulder. “Well done, Annie. Your Father would be proud.”

When I got home, Imogen and Natty were waiting for me, and no small amount of tears was shed over my safe homecoming. I told them they were making too much of it, but it was nice to know that my absence had not gone without notice. It could not be denied that I had been worried over. I was missed. I was loved. Yes, I was loved. And in that, at least, I was blessed.

BY THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Charles Delacroix was down two points in the latest Quinnipiac polls, officially putting him in a dead heat with Bertha Sinclair, and I was still no closer to finding a school. Mr. Kipling and I discussed both these issues in our daily phone call. We kept the calls pretty short to manage costs, but their profligate regularity was a sign of just how worried about me Mr. Kipling was.

“Do you think it was the bus?” I asked.

“That and—you won’t like hearing this, Anya—the fact that you were on the bus allowed the Sinclair people to dredge up the old story about you and Charles Delacroix and his son. There are some people who think your sentence to Liberty was too light and showed favoritism, and the Sinclair campaign is playing right into that.”

“Too light? Obviously they’ve never stayed there,” I quipped. “True, true.”

“You know, Simon likes him. Charles Delacroix, I mean.”

Mr. Kipling laughed. “Yes, I think my young colleague has a bit of a crush. Ever since he talked to him last September to arrange your release from Liberty.

“Anya, I hope you won’t think this is an invasion of your privacy, but I had a question I wanted to ask you.” He inhaled. “Why was Win at the hospital?”