“Can’t,” Sebastian says weakly. “We’ve got to get to the rally.”

“The GSC can get along without you for one night,” Sarah surprises me by saying.

“No,” Sebastian says. He sounds immeasurably weary. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve got to go.”

“Well,” Sarah says resignedly. “Let’s change first. We can’t go in these clothes.”

We’ve reached the park. The roar from the protest is much louder now. We can see the crowd over by the Washington Square Arch, where a temporary stage has been set up. Someone is on the stage, urging the crowd through a megaphone to chant, “What do we want?”

“Equal rights!”

“When do we want them?”

“Now!”

Dusk has fallen. It’s a warm evening, so the usual misfits are out and about—the skateboarders, the bongo players, the runaways with their dogs (why do they always have dogs?), the young couples in love, the drug dealers, the bickering old men in the chess circle.

And the cops, of course. The park is swarming with them, thanks to the union rally.

And there, parked in front of Owen’s building, exactly where it had been this afternoon, is the Ryder truck. Only now the doors to the back are closed. Whoever has rented it is getting ready to drive it away.

That’s good, because there’s no overnight parking this side of the park.

“If I write a guest pass for Sebastian,” Sarah is saying to me, “will you sign it, Heather?”

“Sarah,” I say, annoyed. I just want to get Cooper home and into bed. I’ll have to wake him up every two hours—neither of us is going to get much sleep tonight. But when I think how close I came to losing him entirely, I can’t help shuddering. He could have broken his spine in that stairwell. Or worse.

“I know,” Sarah says. “I know we’re supposed to hand them in twenty-four hours in advance. But how was I supposed to know he’d be out?” Her dark eyes are wide and appealing in the deepening twilight. “Please?”

I sigh. “All right,” I say. “Coop, mind if we make a pit stop?”

“Sure,” Cooper says. “You go on. I’m going home.”

“Coop.” This concussion thing hasn’t exactly done any wonders for his personality. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“And I’m a grown man,” Cooper points out. “Who can make his own way to his house around the corner from here.” Then, seeing my crestfallen expression, he reaches out to ruffle my hair—never a welcome gesture, by the way—and says, “Heather. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at home.”

The next thing I know, he’s limping away.

Sarah peers after him, chewing her lip nervously.

“I’m really sorry,” she says, when she turns to see me staring daggers at her. “This is so nice of you. Especially after everything I’ve done. I know I don’t deserve—”

“Just go inside,” I interrupt. And follow her into the building.

Fischer Hall has a different rhythm at night than it does during the day. About which I can only say—thank God I work days. Most of the residents are in class or still sleeping when I get in at nine, and the majority of them don’t get in—or get up—until I leave at five. When they’re home, the way they are now, the lobby is buzzing with activity, teenagers Rollerblading, signing in guests, pounding the elevator keys, complaining about the television reception in the lobby, calling upstairs to their friends, cursing at their mail, shrieking hello to one another… in other words, the place is a zoo. I don’t know how the hall directors, whose positions are live-in, stand it. Some of them, like Simon Hague, cope by turning into unctuous weasels.

Others, however, maintain their cool simply by letting it all roll off their backs, like Tom. I’ve always hoped that I’d be that kind of hall director, if by some miracle I happened to get my bachelor’s degree and then my master’s and then a director’s position (though heaven help me if this should ever occur).

Others turn into Type A bureaucrats like Owen. And I have a feeling that’s how I’d turn out. I can feel my blood pressure going up just looking at the scuff marks the wheels of those Rollerblades are making on the marble floors. Julio is going to have a coronary when he comes back to work and sees them in the morning, I just know it.

Then I remember he won’t be coming in. Because of the strike.

“Here you go, Sebastian,” I say, when I’ve filled out the guest pass and handed it to him. “Knock yourself out.”

Sebastian looks down at the pass. “Wow,” he says. For a minute, he looks a lot less like a suspected killer and the leader of a student revolution than just a scared kid who got into something that’s way over his head. “Thanks a lot, Heather. You have no idea how much this means to me. I mean, I know Sarah told you about my roommate situation, and my parents got me a hotel room, but… It’s nice for me to be able to stay with Sarah. She… she means a lot. I just didn’t realize how much until recently.”

Embarrassed, Sarah looks down at the pointed toes of her high heels, blushing prettily, seemingly unaware of Sebastian’s gaze on her. I am torn between wanting to hurl and wanting to throw my arms around them. They’re just so… cute.

And I realize I’m feeling something else, a third thing. Envy.

I want that. What they have.

I thought I had it. Sort of. But fortunately, I realized in time that I didn’t. Not that I was in any real danger of doing anything foolish about it, like getting married, or hiking the Appalachian Trail for the summer.

Still. I’d like what the two of them have. Someday.

I settle for saying, gruffly, “Well, remember, you two—practice safe sex. And Sarah, you’re still on duty. If the RA calls, you have to respond, no matter what.”

Sarah’s blush deepens. “Heather,” she says to the floor. “Of course.”

A resident, hearing my name, inhales deeply, and rushes over.

“Oh my God, are you Heather Wells?” she cries.

I look heavenward for strength. “Yes. Why?”

“Oh my God, I know the hall office is closed, but my cousin showed up from out of nowhere, I swear, and I need a guest pass, and if you could make an exception, just this once, and sign one for me, I would be forever in your debt—”

I point at Sarah. “She’s the girl you want to see. I’m out of here.”

And I make my way out of the lobby and back out into the fresh evening air.

Standing in the blue light cast from the building’s security lamp, I look out across the park, trying to ignore the clusters of smokers whose voices drop to a whisper when they see me, recognizing me as a “narc.” The chanting over by the arch has changed to “Union contract now! Disrespect us never!” It’s a mouthful, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

It’s a beautiful evening—too beautiful to turn in so early. On the other hand, now that my dad’s moved out, I have a dog to walk… not to mention a semi-concussed private detective to look after.

I wonder what I’d do if I were a normal single girl in the city—like Muffy. Go out for cocktails, no doubt, with my girlfriends. Of course, I don’t have any girlfriends. Well, that’s not true. But my single girlfriend is busy stalking one of our coworkers and his kids, and my married girlfriend is too hormonal to be any fun.

I can’t help looking at that Ryder truck. It’s still sitting down the street.

What’s going to happen to Muffy, I can’t help wondering, after the strike is over? I mean, it’s going to have to end eventually. The president isn’t going to settle for having a giant inflatable rat sitting outside his office for long. She won’t lose her job, of course, which should be a relief to her—she won’t have to give up her apartment, which she sold all that wedding china for. But what will she do all day?

Well, I guess she can start training for that hike with Tad. They do make a cute couple. It’s true they have even less in common than he and I do. I can’t imagine Muffy on the Appalachian Trail. How is she going to make her hair all big like that without a blow dryer? And I can’t see Tad ever developing an interest in china patterns.