The poem was sad and sweet and nostalgic, yet comic at the same time. Morgan did not remember this one. It hadn’t been in the stack of papers the old man had handed to him weeks ago.

The crowd roared, the applause shaking the building. It was right up their alley. A whole generation who’d thought poetry had to be about flowers and bumblebees. Now they’d heard poetry on steroids. Gritty. Extreme poetry like in a Mountain Dew commercial.

Morgan stayed to hear three more. The old man’s voice had found strength.

Perhaps they enjoyed it for the wrong reasons. Maybe there are no right or wrong reasons. It might not have been the reading Dean Whittaker wanted, but Morgan thought it was beautiful.

Even over the blizzard, Morgan still heard the kids cheering.

The snow mixed with a little sleet. Morgan didn’t care, didn’t mind that it stung his face. His smile was a mile wide. Something good and right had finally happened.

Morgan ducked his head into the wind, put one foot in front of the other toward Albatross Hall. He wanted to find Valentine, have a drink, toast to Fred Jones’s success.

It was after working hours, and the main doors were locked. His keys jingled in his shaking hands. Finally, he found the slot, inserted, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

They grabbed him by both arms, rushed him into Albatross Hall, and shoved him to the floor. Morgan hit hard. He flipped over, looked up at ten black men in long coats. All had pistols out.

A man in a bright yellow suit pointed down at him. “Stay put, motherfucker.”

Morgan nodded. “Okay.”

“Anybody else in this building?”

“I don’t think so,” Morgan lied.

“What’s up there?” The black guy in charge pointed his gun at the ceiling. “Dorms or something?”

“Offices.”

“What you doing here?”

“My office. I left something. A book.” Morgan looked at the guns pointed at him and felt sick. “There’s nothing here of any value. What do you want?”

“We’re gonna go upstairs and kill everyone we see.”

Morgan gulped. What the hell’s going on?

“What you want to do, Zach?” one of them asked.

The man in yellow said, “Fan out and search the floor. We’ll work our way up. If Maurice said they were here, then they’ve got to be here someplace.”

“We ain’t seen Maurice.”

“We’ll find him,” Zach said.

“What about this guy?” Zach’s henchman indicated Morgan with a trigger-pulling motion to the head.

“Don’t shoot. They’ll hear it upstairs,” Zach said. “Just knock him a good one.”

The henchman leaned over Morgan. The butt of his pistol came down sharp and fast across the back of his skull.

Morgan’s eyes flickered open. He saw only darkness. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No change. He rubbed the back of his neck, climbed to his knees. He tried to stand and lost his balance. His hand flew out and he grabbed something wooden. It wasn’t attached to anything and didn’t offer any support. He fell forward into a pile of clattering items, metal and wood. Something fell on him, plastic and heavy.

He didn’t try to stand this time, crawled forward, a tentative hand in front of him. He found a wall, no, wait. It was wooden. Hinges. A door. He felt his way up until he found the knob. He twisted it, fell forward into the light, a clattering wad of brooms and mops. An empty metal bucket rolled out in front of him.

He staggered and stood, felt the back of his head again. Swelling. He looked at his hand. No blood.

How long had he been in the closet? Morgan checked his watch. No more than five minutes. They’d expected him to be unconscious longer, out of the way. Who the hell were those guys?

What had the gang leader said? He’d ordered a search floor by floor. If Morgan acted quickly, he could make it upstairs in time to warn Valentine.

Or he could save his own ass and run away like a little girl.

It shamed him a little that he paused an extra few seconds to decide.

He bolted for the stairs, legs still wobbly. He didn’t pause at any of the lower floors although he wished he knew where the gangsters were. Possibly they were already ahead of him. Perhaps he would find only bodies on the fifth floor. He didn’t stop to think about it, bounded up the steps two at a time.

When he reached the fifth floor, he collapsed, lay sprawled on his back, heaving for air. His lungs ached for breath. His stomach churned and burned with alcohol. His brain spun with the knowledge of imminent death.

He willed himself to his feet, jogged the maze to Valentine’s office.

He threw open the door, stumbled in, startled a “whoa” out of Jenks.

“There’s a bunch of black guys coming up here with guns,” Morgan said.

Morgan leaned heavily against the doorjamb, out of breath, sweat sticking his shirt to him, his heart nearing terminal velocity. His eyes took in Valentine’s office, darted around the room, and landed on Wayne DelPrego, who sat in a corner chair with his head in his hands. Morgan frowned. What was his student doing there?

Then Morgan saw Jenks. His eyes shot wide. “You!”

Jenks looked confused. “Yo, Professor. What are you doing-”

Morgan leapt, hands outstretched, a feral scream splitting the air. He hands went around Jenks’s throat, and both men tumbled to the floor.

“Where have you been, you stupid son of a bitch? I’m going to get fired because of your sorry ass.”

“Get him off me,” Jenks yelled. “Get him off.”

“Professor Morgan!” Valentine leapt on Morgan’s back, heaved him off Jenks.

Jenks rubbed his throat. “He’s crazy.”

DelPrego had watched the whole altercation unfold, hadn’t moved.

“I’ve looked everywhere for you!” Morgan deflated in Valentine’s grip. “Fuck it. Just fuck you.”

“These young men have been hiding here with me,” Valentine said. “Those men downstairs are killers.”

“No time for this story now,” Jenks said to Valentine. “We need a way out of here.”

Jenks went to Valentine’s desk, where Bob Smith had dropped the revolvers. Jenks had been glad to see the guns because he was afraid he’d need them. He tucked the.38 into his belt and checked the load on the Old-West Colt.

Wayne DelPrego sat up from his chair. He looked pale and distracted. In a low, even voice, he said, “Give me one of those.”

“No way,” Jenks said, without looking at him. “You’re not straight in the head.”