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not to miss a single class, and Mattia was the only student who handed in every assignment. Though she was to tell no one about him, not her supervisor, not her fellow instructors, and not her husband, Agnes was fascinated by this “Joseph Mattia”—not only his writing ability but his personality, and his presence. It had always been deeply satisfying to Agnes to teach her university students, but there was no risk involved, as the university campus represented no risk to enter; there was no prison protocol to be observed; as an Ivy League professor, she knew that if she’d never entered her students’ lives, their lives would not be altered much, for they’d been surrounded by first-rate teachers for most of their lives. But at this prison, Ms. Agnes might actually make a difference in an inmate’s life, if he allowed it.
    Mattia’s prose pieces grew more assured with the passage of weeks. He knew Ms. Agnes thought highly of him: she was one of those adults in authority, one of those members of the white world , who held him in high esteem, and would write positively and persuasively on his behalf to the parole board.
    I am happy to recommend. Without qualification .
    One of my very best students in the course. Gracious, courteous, sense of humor. Trustworthy. Reliable .
    It was evident from Mattia’s oblique prose pieces that he had committed acts of which he was “ashamed”—but Mattia had not been specific, as none of the inmates were specific about the reasons for which they were in the maximum-security prison. Only after the course ended did she learn that Mattia had been indicted on a second-degree murder charge, in the death of a Trenton drug dealer; in plea bargaining negotiations, the charge had been reduced to voluntary manslaughter; finally, to involuntary manslaughter. Instead of twenty years to life for murder, Mattia was serving seven years for manslaughter. Agnes told herself, Probably he was acting in self-defense. Whoever he killed would have killed him. He is not a “killer.”
    Mattia’s parole had been approved. On the last class day, Mattia had stood before Agnes to thank her. His lips had trembled. His eyes were awash with tears.
    Again she thought, I remind him of — someone. Someone who’d loved him, whom he had loved .
    From his prose pieces, she knew he lived on Tumbrel Street, Trenton, in a neighborhood only a few blocks from the state capitol rotunda and the Delaware River. This was a part of Trenton through which visitors to the state capitol buildings and the art museum drove without stopping, or avoided altogether by taking Route 29, along the river, into the city. Agnes wondered if he would be returning to this neighborhood; very likely, he had nowhere else to go. How she’d wished she might invite him to visit her .
    Or arrange for him to live elsewhere. Away from the environment that had led to his incarceration.
    Hesitantly, in a lowered voice so the other inmate-students wouldn’t hear as they shuffled out of the classroom, Mattia said, “Ms. Agnes, d’you think I could send you things? Things I would write?”
    Agnes was deeply touched. She thought, What is the harm in it? Mattia is not like the others .
    He’d wanted to mail her his “writings,” he said. “I never had such a wonderful class, Ms. Agnes. Never learned so much …”
    Agnes hesitated. She knew the brave generous reckless gesture would be to give Mattia her address, so that he could write to her; but instructors had been warned against establishing such relations outside the prison classroom; even to allow Mattia to know Agnes’s last name was considered dangerous.
    “If I knew you would read what I write, I would write more—I would write with hope.”
    Yet still Agnes hesitated. “I—I’m sorry, Joseph. I guess—that isn’t such a good idea.”
    Mattia smiled quickly. If he was deeply disappointed in her, he spared her knowing. “Well, ma’am!—thank you. Like I say, I learn a lot .