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possibly, Papa!” Edgar interrupted, his frantic voice rising with the fear of his dream being yanked out from under him. “You have already informed the Dean that I have a skin condition and must wear my gloves at all times. I promise I will not take them off! You taught me well, both of you. I know the power of my touch is an atrocity against God himself. I will not use it or let anyone know of it. I beg you, please, please , let me go to school with the other boys!”
    Mother gathered the billowing fabric of her skirt to drop to her knees beside them. Gently, she cocooned Edgar’s hand in both of hers. Pressing his fingers to her cheek, she dotted his palm with a quick kiss. “Edgar, you do not have to do this. There are other options. Remember Stanley Lankey from down the street? Ever since he fell off his parents’ roof he spends his days home with his mother. They make cookies together. She wheels him out into the garden where he watches her tend to the plants.  That sounds nice, does it not? We could do that!”
    “Mother, the boy is not an invalid, nor shall we make plans to treat him as one.” Father urged in his deep baritone that left no room for argument or discussion. “Edgar is ten years old and is dabbling with all the facets of what it means to be a man. If he claims he is ready for this, we must trust him and support his decision.”
    Edgar’s scrawny chest puffed to emulate the proud stance his father often assumed. “I’m ready. I know it.”
    “Very good, then.” Flecks of gold, that only appeared when he was truly pleased, beamed within the molasses pools of John Allen’s eyes. “Mother, please fetch his satchel and umbrella. We will have the carriage driver drop him at the school gate.”
    Indecision marred Mrs. Allen’s elegant perfection with concerned creases that cut between her brows. Pressing her lips together hard enough to cause white lines around her mouth, she rose to her feet, flipped her mane of pin-curls, and—with visible reluctance—strode off on her task.
    Only at her exit did Father’s brave façade crack. His hands slid down his son’s arms until he caught both the boy’s wrists. Turning Edgar’s hands palm up, he inspected the gloves, searching for any snag or catch that would allow the horrifying truth to seep through. “Whatever happens, do not remove your gloves. Promise me that?” His gaze scoured his son’s face, encouraging the words he longed to hear to tumble passed his lips.
    “Of course! I promise , Papa!”
    Folding both his hands around his son’s, John brought them to his chest as if in prayer. Suddenly, the man that always seemed able to mold the world to his will appeared genuinely vulnerable … and frightened. “If anything happens, Edgar, anything that scares you or that you cannot control, you run straight home without pause. It will not make you a coward, son. It will make you a man aware of the severity of his condition. Do you understand?”
    Edgar swallowed hard around the lump of trepidation that had wriggled its way into his throat. “Yes, Papa. I understand. Yet you must know that nothing will happen. Death does not loom on school yards.”
    Outside the wind lashed and whistled, its powerful gust allowing a nearby tree branch to scratch against the windowpane like bony fingers.
    “Edgar Allen,” John muttered , staring out at the threatening storm. “I fear wherever you are, death will always follow.”
     

     
    Happiness was shoes clumping through busy halls, the hum of constant chatter, and boys stealing one another’s caps and playing ‘keep away’ with them. Edgar watched all this as an outsider not yet initiated into the fold, yet he remained optimistic. More than one of the lads gave him a friendly nod of the head in greeting. A simple gesture that made the heart of Poe, the eternal outsider, sing. To be one of them, to be included. Such an idea was nothing short of pure bliss.
    Despite his distaste for Mrs. Nesbit ,