. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P A R O L E . C A L L

Damien helps clean the classroom everyday at 3:45 and he does a damn good job. I can’t read his emotions at all. I know he was in a real long time and I know he was in for murder. He doesn’t talk much, but he often murmurs to himself, “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” in a descending scale. He has a certain innocence, a naiveté. “Miss P.,” Damien asked me, “do you think I could get $10 for this half a twenty if I take it to the bank?” I walked over to see he was holding half a twenty-dollar bill torn along the face of Andrew Jackson. “Not sure, ” I said. I looked on the Internet and learned you need to be able to read both serial numbers and at least 75% of the bill. “Maybe I should save it for good luck,” Damien said. “Or save it because maybe someday you’ll find the person who has the other half,” I said. He laughed. “That’s a one in a million chance, Miss P!”