The Librarian squeezed his eyes shut, hissed air through his teeth and then, very gently, placed the scissors in Sam’s palm.
Sam’s heart flipped over. His hand felt strangely inert, the scissors oddly heavy.
He didn’t move as the Librarian cracked his eyes open and stared down in shock and awe, then spat out a mouthful of air and withdrew his hand fast, cradling it to his chest.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ the Boxer muttered.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told the Librarian, patting his arm. ‘You did really well.’
The Librarian’s mouth moved soundlessly. He nodded several times. Then his face collapsed and he bowed his head and he started to sob, big wracking cries that rocked his spindly shoulders and chest.
‘It’s all right,’ Sam told him, reaching down to place the scissors safely on the floor behind his seat, then crouching forwards and resting a hand on the Librarian’s upper back. ‘Take your time. It’s OK.’
He rubbed the area between the Librarian’s prominent shoulder blades and looked at the others in the room.
They all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Some of them shook their heads. Others just blinked.
The Artist had extended a hand towards the Athlete, Sam noticed, bracing it against his upper arm. The Boxer was scrubbing a palm across his bald head. The Lost Girl gnawed her thumbnail.
‘How about the rest of you step outside and give us a few minutes?’ Sam suggested.
The Artist squirmed. ‘We could just go?’
‘No,’ Sam told her. ‘Please don’t do that. There’s a final exercise I want us to run through before next time. But if one of you could go to my backpack on the desk over there and unzip the top pocket, you’ll find some tokens for the vending machine down the hall. Help yourselves to drinks, then come back, OK?’
When nobody moved, Sam rubbed the Librarian’s back again and asked, ‘Would some water help?’
‘I . . . Yes, I think so?’ He glanced cautiously at the others in the room. ‘Please?’
The Artist pushed her mouth to one side, glancing at the others before shrugging. ‘Fine, I guess.’
‘I’ll get the tokens,’ the Athlete offered.
He crossed the room, keeping his attention on the Librarian, then picked up Sam’s backpack and reached for the zipped pouch on the front before stopping.
‘It’s already open.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your backpack. But . . .’ He scooped his hand into the pocket and removed a handful of plastic tokens. ‘It’s OK, I found them. Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you?’
‘No,’ Sam told him, meanwhile thinking with some puzzlement about his backpack. He couldn’t remember unzipping the compartment himself, but then again, he hadn’t checked it since he’d stashed it in his locker before his lecture. Had he secured the lock on his locker? He couldn’t remember. ‘There’s really no need. It would be better if you could give us a few minutes to talk.’