people, saw new heights of sharing. The students often had so little, but were willing to give their lifeblood for another. This year, for the third time, she watched the pixie-haired female guide the tall blind student through the maze of bookbags and sign-in tables so that he could give blood. She pondered the wide range of volunteers, and realized it was the one place that gifts of the poor and the rich were equal in weight.
Yes, it was definitely worth it. But now it was time to change into her baggy sweats, kick back and relax. Besides, she needed to imbibe about 32 ounces of water to replenish her fluids before tackling her classes the next day.
The rhododendrons and junipers at the side of the building, graceful by day, sinister by dusk, hid the attacker until he lunged from the shadows. Suzanne Mishkin saw him too late, barely managing to turn her head before the blow struck. Searing pain blurred all awareness; oblivion cushioned her fall. As her left arm flung up to cover her face, she fell. She was unconscious before the second blow cracked her forearm. She didn’t see the attacker pull the scarf away from her face, shudder, and stumble away.
Vice-president Timothy Kahn locked his office door religiously every night. Tonight he did so automatically, with lack of assurance. He was bone-weary. Almost dizzy. He gave blood once a year because he encouraged the students to do so. But as usual, today he’d almost fainted. The normally jovial, perennially optimistic man felt embarrassment every time. He knew his virility wasn’t threatened, but as he lay on the donor table too dizzy to arise, the faces peering down at him in a foggy blur brought him to another level—one he didn’t like.
He left McAfee Hall as swiftly as he could, considering his weakness. The damp chill sliced through him swiftly, belying the day’s mild beginnings. He glanced up just in time to avoid stepping on the mound on the sidewalk. His breath left him altogether when he realized it was a woman. Sharp and competent when it came to finances, his usual organized demeanor fled in the path of human adversity. His weak voice shouted out in dismay, the sight of the unconscious woman rattling him. He finally knelt beside her and attempted to find a pulse—something he’d never done in his life. Hoping what he was feeling was indeed a pulse, he eased upright, shouting more loudly. “HELP, we need help over here!” He waved wildly in accompaniment. Two students, walking from the parking lot, cut across the grass and met him on the path.
A brief glance had the boy whispering, “Oh, God, it’s Dr. Mishkin. Melanie, use your cell phone. We need an ambulance.”
As she pulled it from her purse she begged him, “Jake, see if there’s anything we can do?”
When Jake saw that Mr. Kahn seemed incapable of looking after Dr. Mishkin, he bent his lean frame over and tried to examine the professor without moving her. The damage to the left side of her head and the pool of blood worried him.
“She’s taken a blow to the head and her arm’s broken. I don’t want to move her to check further.” He removed his coat and carefully laid it over her twisted body. Timothy Kahn mumbled his thanks in hushed tones as he stood wringing his hands in anxiety, the situation too sinister for his normally myopic world. They turned to him with questions, but he had no answers.
A small crowd gathered. Most of the faculty and administrators departed earlier. The majority of students congregated near the dining hall in the evening. Stragglers leaving for the day wound their way toward the group standing helplessly on the sidewalk. The siren’s approaching whine drew others.
Prior to their arrival Mr. Kahn had regained his composure and called campus security. The arrival of Mark Raub and several of his men as the ambulance approached swelled the gathering. Efficient and skilled technicians quickly examined Dr. Mishkin’s head and arm, checking other
Yes, it was definitely worth it. But now it was time to change into her baggy sweats, kick back and relax. Besides, she needed to imbibe about 32 ounces of water to replenish her fluids before tackling her classes the next day.
The rhododendrons and junipers at the side of the building, graceful by day, sinister by dusk, hid the attacker until he lunged from the shadows. Suzanne Mishkin saw him too late, barely managing to turn her head before the blow struck. Searing pain blurred all awareness; oblivion cushioned her fall. As her left arm flung up to cover her face, she fell. She was unconscious before the second blow cracked her forearm. She didn’t see the attacker pull the scarf away from her face, shudder, and stumble away.
Vice-president Timothy Kahn locked his office door religiously every night. Tonight he did so automatically, with lack of assurance. He was bone-weary. Almost dizzy. He gave blood once a year because he encouraged the students to do so. But as usual, today he’d almost fainted. The normally jovial, perennially optimistic man felt embarrassment every time. He knew his virility wasn’t threatened, but as he lay on the donor table too dizzy to arise, the faces peering down at him in a foggy blur brought him to another level—one he didn’t like.
He left McAfee Hall as swiftly as he could, considering his weakness. The damp chill sliced through him swiftly, belying the day’s mild beginnings. He glanced up just in time to avoid stepping on the mound on the sidewalk. His breath left him altogether when he realized it was a woman. Sharp and competent when it came to finances, his usual organized demeanor fled in the path of human adversity. His weak voice shouted out in dismay, the sight of the unconscious woman rattling him. He finally knelt beside her and attempted to find a pulse—something he’d never done in his life. Hoping what he was feeling was indeed a pulse, he eased upright, shouting more loudly. “HELP, we need help over here!” He waved wildly in accompaniment. Two students, walking from the parking lot, cut across the grass and met him on the path.
A brief glance had the boy whispering, “Oh, God, it’s Dr. Mishkin. Melanie, use your cell phone. We need an ambulance.”
As she pulled it from her purse she begged him, “Jake, see if there’s anything we can do?”
When Jake saw that Mr. Kahn seemed incapable of looking after Dr. Mishkin, he bent his lean frame over and tried to examine the professor without moving her. The damage to the left side of her head and the pool of blood worried him.
“She’s taken a blow to the head and her arm’s broken. I don’t want to move her to check further.” He removed his coat and carefully laid it over her twisted body. Timothy Kahn mumbled his thanks in hushed tones as he stood wringing his hands in anxiety, the situation too sinister for his normally myopic world. They turned to him with questions, but he had no answers.
A small crowd gathered. Most of the faculty and administrators departed earlier. The majority of students congregated near the dining hall in the evening. Stragglers leaving for the day wound their way toward the group standing helplessly on the sidewalk. The siren’s approaching whine drew others.
Prior to their arrival Mr. Kahn had regained his composure and called campus security. The arrival of Mark Raub and several of his men as the ambulance approached swelled the gathering. Efficient and skilled technicians quickly examined Dr. Mishkin’s head and arm, checking other
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