The campus was almost empty. It was a summer Sunday. A few people lay about on the grass. Kids on roller blades.
She walked with an armload of used books from a store on Telegraph and she knew someone was behind her. Someone riding a bicycle and playing a harmonica. She didn't turn her head. The world is full of crazies. Most of them harmless.
She was half way through a rough life. She did not know that the year behind her was not the hardest she would know. A traumatic birth, a divorce. Her oldest in detention. Evicted twice. So she did not turn her head as the harmonica player rode perilously slow behind her.
Then he spoke softly to her.
``I am the spiritual father of your children,'' he said.
Now he rode alongside. African. Tall and long limbed.
She thought of her children at home watching TV. Her boy in a group home.
``OK, spiritual father,'' she said, ``get my boy back with me where he belongs!''
The spiritual father bowed to her seriously then put the harmonica to his lips and resumed playing. They continued on their way through the maize of footpaths until she turned down University to catch the bus home.
``I am the spiritual father of your children. No harm shall come to them,'' he said. He bowed to her once more then eased into the traffic, harmonica soft at his lips.
She watched until she could no longer see him.