She stepped down to the floor once again and moved the stool a couple of feet nearer to his desk. Swiveling his chair around, he scanned the high row of pictures. “Terrific,” he said. “They add a nice touch to the room, don’t you think?”

“Be nicer if they weren’t all deadguys.”

“Well, unfortunately, the literary community doesn’t hold much stock in living writers. You can’t be a ‘major author’ till you’re dead.”

Lane thought he was wrong about that. Though she felt reluctant to question his views, he usually seemed to enjoy discussions with his students. Besides, if she stopped talking, he would return to the essays.

“Dad says that’s a myth,” she told him, and climbed onto the stool. She lifted a picture of Hemingway from the chalk tray and raised it to the corkboard. “Most of these guys were enormously successful and famous in their own time.” She punched a tack through its corner. “Only a few weren’t recognized till after they died. Like Poe, for instance.”

Bending down for a picture of Steinbeck, she looked over her shoulder. Mr. Kramer was smiling, nodding his head.

“And Poe was allscrewed up,” she added.

Mr. Kramer laughed. “I suppose he had to be, to write the way he did.”

“I don’t know.” She straightened up and pressed the picture into place. “Dad writes worse stuff than Poe, and he seems fairly normal. I’ve met scads of horror writers — going to conventions and stuff.” She pressed in the tack, then turned carefully atop the stool to look down at Mr. Kramer. “Some are even really good friends of Dad’s, guys I’ve known forever. Almost none of them are weird. In fact, they seem more normal and well-adjusted than most people I’ve known.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“I know. You’d think they’d be raving lunatics, wouldn’t you?”

“Or at least slightly weird.”

“You know what isweird? Nearly all of them I know have this incredible sense of humor. They’re always cracking me up.”

“Strange. Maybe their humor is a reflection of their somewhat off-kilter world view.”

“More than likely.” Lane climbed down from the stool, moved it closer to Mr. Kramer, and mounted it again. As she rose, she lifted a picture of Faulkner from the chalk tray. She pressed it against the corkboard and tacked it into place. Hearing a squeak, she glanced back. Mr. Kramer had turned his swivel chair around. He was looking up at her.

He didn’t say anything.

Lane crouched for another picture. As she raised it, she said, “You know how we were talking about dead writers and fame?”

“The myth.”

“Right. Well, you want to know something odd? The reverse is actually true. At least nowadays.” She tacked the picture of Frost to the cork. “When a writer kicks the bucket, he’s screwed.”

She heard her teacher laugh. Turning around, she smiled down at him. “Publishers want to builda writer. Once he’s dead, they don’t want to touch him.”

More laughter.

“It’s true. Unless he’s a real biggy. With most guys, they just lose interest. I know about an agent, and one of his best writers died, and he kept it a secret. She was a big writer of romances, you know? He stood to lose a fortune. So what he did, he actually got some hack to start writing imitations, and he sold them using the dead writer’s name. Do you believe it?”

“Gives a new meaning to ‘literary immortality.’ ”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

Lane turned away and took a picture of Sandburg off the tray. Rising, she realized she should have moved the stool. Frost was already some distance to her left. Sandburg would mean a stretch. She supposed she could manage it, though.

Easing herself forward, she braced her right forearm against the chalkboard. She leaned to the left. She reached way out with the picture of Sandburg and pressed it to the wall and the stool flipped.

Lane heard herself gasp, “Oh shit!”

Part of her mind seemed to disconnect, to step back and observe this ridiculous and embarrassing event. She saw herself dropping sideways, arms waving in the air beyond her head, her right leg high as if the overturning stool had thrown it toward the ceiling. Her skirt was up around her hips. Her blouse was halfway up her chest.

Wunnerful wunnerful.

She heard a crash, but it wasn’t her. Not yet. Maybe Kramer’s chair slamming against his desk.

He coming to the rescue? she wondered. Or just trying to get out of the way.

Coming to the rescue, she realized as one of his hands jammed under her armpit and another clapped the bare skin of her upraised leg, high against her inner thigh. She felt the hands thrust upward. Then she slammed the floor, grunting at the impact.

The hands went away.

“My God, are you okay?”

Nodding, gasping, Lane rolled onto her back. Mr. Kramer was kneeling over her. His face was red, his eyes wide, his lips twisted in a grimace.

“Guess I’ll live,” she muttered. She started to sit up.

“Don’t.” He gently pushed her shoulder. She eased back down. “Don’t try to get up. Just rest a minute.” He kneaded her shoulder. “That was a nasty fall.”

“Thanks for catching me.”

“Well, I tried. It happened so fast.”

“You broke my fall some.”

“Not much.”

“I feel like such a dork.”

“These things happen.” His other hand patted her belly. “I just hope you’re all right. You really gave me a scare.” His hand settled there, big and warm against her bare skin just above her belt. “Where do you hurt?” he asked.

“My side, I guess.”

He leaned farther over her. His hand slid across her belly to her hip. “Here?”

She nodded. “And my ribs.”

“Hope nothing’s broken.”

“I don’t think so.”

Lane closed her eyes. Gently, Mr. Kramer rubbed her hip bone and the side of her rump. His other hand brushed her blouse upward. “Pretty red,” he murmured. “You’ll probably have a whale of a bruise.”

“Moby bruise,” she said, then sighed as he began to massage the side of her ribcage.

“Tender?” he asked.

“Yeah. A little.”

His hand roamed higher, fingers kneading, soothing the soreness.

“Any sharp pain?” he asked.

“No.” She moaned when his wrist brushed against the underside of her breast.

“It hurts here?” he asked, pressing her ribs. The wrist moved slightly, rubbing her.

“Just kind of an ache,” she murmured.

He massaged her side, his wrist staying against her breast, caressing Lane through the thin fabric of her bra.

Doesn’t he realize it’s there? she wondered.

She hoped not.

If he realized, he would stop.

His other hand eased lower. Lane’s skirt was no longer in its way. She felt him stroking and squeezing the side of her leg, high up.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He continued to rub her.

Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me? she wondered.

Lightly, he patted her leg. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t we get you to your feet now?”

Lane considered telling him she wasn’t ready. Any more of this, though, and it might become all too obvious that his touch was doing more than just soothing her injuries.

He took a firm hold on her upper arm, placed his other hand at the base of her neck, and helped her sit up.

Her blouse unrumpled and drifted toward her waist. Her skirt was as high as she had suspected. She glimpsed glossy blue between her legs, and dropped a hand to conceal it.

A little late for modesty, she thought.

Mr. Kramer held onto her arm until she was standing.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

When he let go, she looked down and straightened her skirt.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She raised her eyes. “At least I was wearing clean undies,” she added, and smirked, and couldn’t believe she’d said that.

“Always should,” Mr. Kramer said, a smile spreading across his face. “You never know when you might be in an accident.”