ABSTRACT
I can still hear him, ten years later, walking in. I can still hear, ten years later, the total stillness in the hallway broken by the electronic ``ting'' of the elevator, an unmistakable sign that the door is about to open. I can still hear the hydraulic sound of the elevator doors opening up, pausing for a second or two and then closing, and I can still hear his hurried, awkward footsteps and his almost breathless voice as he was reading with increasing excitement the room numbers posted on the doors along the hallway: ``®ve'' step, step, ``seven'' step, step, ``nine'' step, step, ``eleven'' step, step, ``®fteen'' (there was no ``thirteen'') step, step, and then with an audible relief and relish ``seventeeeeeen'' and then, a pause.
