I sat back down on the bench.
Daniel and Paul were both watching me.
“Priya,” I said.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I read your thesis,” she said.
“Professor Holt assigned it to our seminar as an example of — he told us it was an example of poor structural argument.
But when I read it, I thought it was one of the most honest pieces of literary criticism I’d encountered all year.
And I looked up your background, and I found out you worked in a factory for thirty years, and you lost your wife, and you enrolled at sixty-five, and I just — ” She stopped.
“I thought you deserved to know that someone read it and thought it was good.
And I thought you deserved to know what he said, because I think you should decide what to do with that information.”
I looked at the letter from Margaret, still folded in my hand.
