"Grant."

Silence.

"Grant?"

No response.

"Grant!"

"Huh?" The young man finally looked up from his textbook.

"I swear, John," the sergeant said with a smile, "sometimes I can’t decide if you’re deaf or just don’t know your own name."

"Just concentrating," John said, putting away the book. "You need me for something?"

"Yeah, a couple of co-eds have locked their keys in their car over by the library. Think you can handle it?"

"No problem."

Sergeant Miller watched him pick up the doorjack and head out. The security officer had only been half-joking about John’s name. The boy’s lengthy response time was only one of the peculiarities he had noticed in his new student assistant.

Campus security often hired students who were interested in law enforcement careers. The part-time jobs gave them something of an internship. John had seemed earnest enough when he showed up at the station two weeks into the semester looking for work. He was a criminology major and thought he might like to be a cop someday. He hadn't seemed very attentive at the early lecture sessions, however, and appeared to be only a little more focused as the hands-on training began.

One of the most frequent tasks the student assistants were assigned was unlocking cars for careless fellow students and the occasional, forgetful professor. As the sergeant demonstrated the use of the doorjack John had apparently found the sorority house across the street much more entertaining. In the tradition of good teachers everywhere Miller called on the least attentive of his pupils to make an example. Oblivious to the fact that the sergeant was merely hoping he wouldn’t scratch the car John promptly popped the lock as easily as some of the force’s professional officers. It wasn’t lost on Miller that he had used a technique that hadn’t been covered in the demonstration.

Intrigued by the boy’s… unusual skill Miller had requested a copy of John’s full transcript. He wasn’t surprised to see that the high school records were from six different high schools in four different states. The first schools on the list indicated a predilection for fighting. The last several schools had no such notes. The grades had improved markedly, too. Scanning the next page of the application Miller spotted the probable reason for the apparent shift in John’s attitudes. The only item listed under extra-curricular activities was "Golden Gloves".

John had begun participating a couple of years ago. The amateur boxing program seemed to have given the boy an outlet for his anger and provided a focus for everything else. He had apparently been pretty good at it. An impressive string of awards and titles followed the years and clubs he had belonged to. It was the one thing on the entire transcript that John seemed to be proud of. Checking John’s current class and activity schedule Miller was a little surprised to see that he hadn’t even tried out for the school boxing team. Curious about this oversight he had asked John about it.

John had shrugged. "I don’t know," he said. "I guess... I just don’t need it anymore." He looked at the sergeant with an expression more mature than Miller was accustomed to seeing in a teenager. "I was trying to prove something, more to myself than anybody. I think I have it pretty much worked out, now."

"But you were good," Miller said. "Don’t you miss it?"

John shook his head. "Not really. I just had to see if I could do it their way. Now I know."

It was an unusual answer but Miller thought he understood. The boy wasn’t concerned about whether or not he was any good as a fighter. His numerous expulsions could have told him that. He wasn’t worried about losing. He was worried about losing himself. He needed to know if he could fight within the rules. The Golden Gloves program had given him a place to sort through it without hurting anyone else.

"Besides," John said with a grin, "amateur boxing isn’t exactly the same as boxing collegiate. It wouldn’t be fair to everybody else."

Miller glanced up at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes. John could pop a lock in a fraction of that time. Either he had run into a problem or the girls were pretty. Odds were fifty-fifty. John seemed to attract both trouble and beauty. Miller picked up his radio.

"Grant? Status?"

The second radio lying on the counter echoed his words. Miller swore. Some days he thought the kid really had potential. Other days he was convinced that John would get himself shot his first week on a real police force. As he looked at John’s forsaken radio he decided that today was one of those other days.