The phone rang at Pratt Taylor’s house at nearly three in the morning.

Pratt fumbled for the phone in the dark. He answered groggily after the fourth ring.

“Hello,” Pratt mumbled into the receiver.

“Mr. Taylor. Thank goodness. I need your help.”

Pratt knew the voice, for sure. However, in his somnolent state, he could not quite place it.

“Mr. Taylor!” the man said again in a raspy, loud whisper. “I am in jail. I was allowed one phone call. I’m calling you.”

Then, the fog cleared. Although nearly ten years had passed since their last encounter, Pratt was able to discern something familiar in this voice. It belonged to a boy named Martin Hall, easily one of the most brilliant math students he had ever had. But while Pratt recalled that Martin possessed an enviable acumen for math, he also had a knack for getting into trouble.

Still, they had forged a strong student-teacher bond, and when Martin graduated from Linebrook High School, Pratt had told him, “Call me if there is anything you ever need.”

So here it was – the call in the middle of the night.

“Yes, Martin. Is that you?”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor. Can you help?”

“What do you need?”

“Bail money.”

“What did you do?”

“We’ll talk about that later. Can you get me one thousand bucks?”

Pratt knew he could, but he was hesitant. What had Martin done? What was Pratt getting himself into? Pratt’s honor to his word helped make his decision. “Yes, I can. Where shall I bring it?”

“I’m at Jessup in Maryland. My brother will come by your place in the morning. Give the money to him, and he will come and bail me out.”

“Ok.”

The decision would be one that would irk Pratt for a very, very long time.