On Sunday morning, after Emma led the two reporters away, I telephoned the principal of my school. From our brief conversation, it was obvious to me that he’d been following the story of the attempted theft of my poem closely in the media.
“Harvey. I was hoping to hear from you. Were you badly hurt?”
“It could have been much worse. Though I’m still going to need a substitute for the week.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
I thanked him and he asked me about the state of my poem, adding, “If someone can figure out how to send a Rover to Mars, I’m sure someone can figure out how to make your poem look as good as new.”
I replied that I was having it restored and that it was going to be fine, though I had no way of knowing this.
“That’s a relief. The pictures I saw of i
