A Hand Over His Hand

For the first time in three years those hands touch him without meaning to hurt: a warm palm over his hand, “I’m trying to talk to you normally”, an almost-confession about the locker room. Everything Simon prayed for is happening — on the one evening when it can no longer change anything. There is no room left in him for joy — only the panic of a person handed his wish after the trigger has been pulled.

This is the third toll of the same bell: the defense in the courtyard (“no one left to accept protection”), the “let’s talk” over the poisoned bottle — and now the touch. The author is methodical: the chances did come. But they arrived at a psyche that could no longer receive them — and each such scene makes the story more tragic, not less.