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loft was heated to a comfortable temperature. Michael carefully lifted his jacket from Aaron's shoulders and laid it over a chair.
          "Take a look around," he said. "The hardwood floors and ceilings are original to the building, but the rest is mine. Oh, and if you need to use the restroom, there are three to choose from." He indicated the doors, each in a separate corner of the loft, then walked over to the kitchen to start a kettle of water.
          Aaron didn't know where to begin. In one corner of the enormous space was a classic arcade with pinball machines, console video games, a bowling machine, a dartboard, a chessboard, candy and drink vending machines, and in honor of 21st century technology, a replica 1950s era jukebox with 100 CD capacity, iPod jack, and surround-sound speakers.
          Another area was outfitted as a gym, with a basketball hoop (with regulation key), a full-size trampoline, a weight machine, a treadmill, a stationary-bike, and a weight-bench surrounded by free-weights.
          In a far corner, Michael had set up a music studio equipped with a dozen vintage guitars and amps, a pro drum kit, and an array of keyboards. The digital recording console had an immense, automated mixing board and was fitted with a pair of the biggest display monitors Aaron had ever seen.
          "Your loft ... it's incredible!" he said.
          Michael smiled and nodded – he was proud of his success.
          He washed and dried his hands then removed a first aid kit from a drawer, opened it, and laid a few items out on the large granite island. "Come on over and sit down for a second," he said. "But wash your hands first."
          As Aaron washed up, he found scratches on the backs of his hands that he hadn't noticed under all of the grime. Damn dog , he thought, as a brief, frightening image of the manic animal jumped in and out of his mind. Then he took a seat on a stool by the island.
          Michael cleaned Aaron's cuts and abrasions and applied antiseptic, gauze and tape. "That should do the trick," he said.
          Aaron stood, feeling renewed. He smiled at Michael, grateful for the man's kindness.
    ---
          While Michael straightened up his mess, Aaron walked across the loft to a wall of glass that provided a spectacular view of the city. He could see Creek Side Park and the post lanterns sparkling off the icy water flowing in the stream. In the distance he could see the Community Plaza Bank building and the lights in his middle-school parking lot.
          Michael walked over to a cozy sitting area carrying a tray with two cups of hot chocolate. "Have a seat and help yourself," he said, gesturing toward the sofa. He set the tray on the large ottoman and returned to the kitchen.
          Aaron sank into the glove-soft leather, then laid his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The day's disturbing events simmered in his skull like beef stew over an open fire, blending together into a thick broth, no single event standing out from the rest. He opened his eyes and leaned forward to hook his finger into a cup of chocolate, then took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage.
          Michael returned with some brownies and napkins and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," he said.
          Aaron nodded politely. "I was nine when he died," he said. "He was killed while serving in Afghanistan." He couldn't help but recall that dreadful night four years earlier when the doorbell rang: It was around midnight, and he and his mother had both been asleep. He'd been too young to understand why she held his hand so tightly as they walked down the stairs to answer the door. He remembered the look on her face when she saw the notifying officer and the medic. The despair in her eyes. The loneliness. The terror. She had known why they had come.
          "I'm very sorry," Michael said.
          Aaron took a bite of brownie