FEBRUARY 11

Dear Mr. Knightley,

The Tribune bought my piece. I can’t decide if I should jump for joy or throw up. They will publish it as a Sunday feature next month. There are so many people to talk to now—and there’s a deadline. What have I gotten myself into?

There is one person I won’t have to tell, though, and I thought I’d feel good about that—now I’m not so sure. As I told the Muirs about the article and the internship interview (Susan Ellis, the Trib’s Deputy Editor, called to schedule it), Alex came to mind, and my heart jumped to my throat. I don’t want him to know my past. Call me a coward, but in this case I don’t care. He doesn’t need to know. So I extracted a promise from the Muirs not to tell him.

The professor wasn’t pleased. “Why? Do you think he’ll use it against you? Put it in a book?”

“Of course not.” Those thoughts hadn’t even occurred to me.

“Then why the subterfuge?”

Subterfuge? “He doesn’t need to know. It’s not important to him, and I don’t want any more drama.” I hoped the professor might believe my oh-so-casual approach. He didn’t.

He leaned forward and templed his fingers in front of his chin. He looked remarkably like Father John at that moment, and I fully expected a lecture. But it didn’t come—only a few sentences that carried more power than any of Father John’s speeches.

“I won’t tell, Sam. It’s your past—your story to share. But remember: it doesn’t define you.” His words hung above us. “Never let something so unworthy define you.”

I got my promise of secrecy, but now it doesn’t feel good.

I’m going running,

Sam