I saw him go back into the main bar, where he joined Nigel and Daphne. He put his arm around Daphne. He kissed the top of her head.

Something bad was turning in my brain. I walked the campus. All those images: greatness, Daphne, money-all gone. I hated John. I hated Daphne. I hated the V &D. I passed the red-bricked dormitories with cannon marks from the Revolutionary War. I passed the gothic Centennial Church, the renaissance porticoes of Creighton Hall, the statue of our founder, handsome and proud. I hated this place, but it was beautiful. I hated it because it was beautiful.

I wasn’t tired, and I was sick of feeling sorry for myself, so I went back to the library. I found an empty floor. I opened the Torts book to page one and started reading again. The case was Scott v. Shepherd. The defendant had thrown a lit firecracker into a crowded indoor market. A surprised vendor picked it up and lobbed it away from himself to another part of the market. Another vendor picked it up and lobbed it again. Finally, it struck the plaintiff (you have to love old English) “in the face therewith” and exploded. The question was, who caused the injury: The initial thrower? One of the intervening lobbers? It occurred to me that since I’d come to this place, I hadn’t caused a thing. I’d just been swept along.

The shy little librarian passed by, pushing his cart. He must have been on night owl reshelving duty. He took books from empty carrels and placed them on his cart. He grabbed two books off my desk.

“Um, excuse me,” I called after him. “I still need those.”

He stopped, made a big production of turning around and rolling over to me. He set the books back on my desk and rolled the cart away.

There was a piece of paper sticking out from one of the books. It hadn’t been there before.

I pulled it out and looked at it.

It was an article. The word DRAFT was typed across the top. Someone had written in pencil below: Come on, can’t you make me sound a little more impressive? -HJM.

I was surprised to see a picture of the man I met at the first V &D event, the retired lawyer with the bad red toupee. The one who wanted to talk about my grandfather, then blindsided me by knowing all about me.

The picture showed the same face: friendly, a thick rug of hair slightly off-kilter.

I read the text below the picture and froze. I felt my blood run cold. I looked for the librarian, but he was gone.

I was alone on the floor.

Below the picture, the article began:

Henry James Morton, retired law professor and

chief White House counsel under presidents

Kennedy and Johnson, passed away peacefully

in his sleep on November 20, 2006.

November 20, 2006.

That was in two days.

17

Shock was my first reaction. A draft obituary, predicting an exact date of death. And the soon-to-be-dead-man, completely on board. What did it mean? What was the V &D up to?

Very quickly, a new thought shot through my mind like a lightning bolt:

I can hurt them.

I didn’t know how. I didn’t know when. But in some way, this information was valuable. Someone wanted me to see the obituary. I knew better than to ask the librarian. There was an etiquette to these things, a code. I’d picked up that much. Someone shared my anger. Or maybe they just wanted to use me toward some common goal. Either way, fine by me. The big shots push the little guys around. If you let them.

There was only one person to talk to, of course.

I banged on Miles’s door. His apartment was a disaster, covered with laundry and papers, dishes piled up in the small kitchen. His beard, normally woolly, was now edging-in its length and curliness-away from philosopher toward holy man. Miles caught me staring.

“I need money for razors.”

He must have been disappointed by my reaction; he shrugged and said, “I have a chapter due Monday.” Then he pointed a giant finger at me. “I called you, you know. A couple weeks ago.”

“I know.”

“Didn’t hear back.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Miles.”

“No need. I’ve got lots of friends.” He inclined his head toward the empty apartment in proof. “So, what’s new?”

The simplicity, the sheer banality of the question stumped me.

But Miles was studying my face. His eyebrows knitted together, then they relaxed and raised. He spoke to me in a calm voice, like he had all the time in the world.

“Okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I told him everything, except the obituary.

“I’m very sorry, Jeremy. I know how badly you wanted it.”

He clapped his large hands.

“Now, on to your more pressing problems. It’s time to rebuild. You can’t pass these courses now. It’s too much material. You’ll take a leave of absence and start fresh in the spring.”

“And have Incompletes on my transcript? Go through three years of law school, then wonder why no one wants to hire me? No way.”

“It’s your best option.”

“Not necessarily.”

He looked at me, confused and maybe a little wary.

“What are you saying?”

“What if I’m not ready to give up?”

“Give up on what? On them?”

I nodded.

He shook his head.

“Let it go, Jer. You came a hell of a lot closer than most people ever will. Closer than I ever did.”

“Miles, I think that’s worse.”

He gave me a look that said Enough.

“Time to rebuild.”

I ignored him.

“What if there’s a way?”

“What do you mean, a way?”

“What if I had something… a piece of information… that might make the V and D reconsider? They can take four people one year. Why not? Then I’m back on track.”

Until this moment, Miles had been serious, but he never lost his basic good humor. But now, he spoke very slowly, all the color gone from his voice.

“Tell me exactly what you mean.”

I pulled out the obituary. I showed him the picture and explained the story.

His voice sounded strange.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Miles-all six foot seven of him-was nervous.

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No. Nobody.”

He looked at me hard, then nodded.

“There’s someone you need to meet.”

Miles and I walked side by side through the university, a cold wind moving in from the north, hands deep in our pockets. The fresh air seemed to lighten his mood.

“Who are we going to see?” I asked again.

“Chance Worthington,” Miles repeated.

“Who is Chance Worthington? Is he a student?”

“Not exactly.”

“How can you not exactly be a student?”

“Chance’s status with the university is unclear.”

Miles laughed and slapped my back.

It turned out Chance had been on campus as long as Miles, without collecting a single degree. This was a rare feat, considering Miles had done undergrad, law school, and now part of his PhD here. Chance was an on-again, off-again reporter for the campus paper and for whoever else would publish his articles: alternative weeklies, alien-invasion tabloids, ranting socialist leaflets. Unlike most college reporters, Miles explained, Chance wasn’t satisfied with covering can drives and campus protests over the plight of the penguins. He’d taken numerous leaves of absence to travel around the world, to places with violent conflicts or exceptionally pure weed. He had a pile of letters from the administration that he was afraid to open, but they were still cashing his checks.

Miles was one of those people who collected odd friends. In high school, you could count on him to know every lost soul in the Ol’ South Pancake House, our twenty-four-hour hangout after debate matches. He knew the quiet truckers and the self-titled lesbian cowgirls. He knew the Vietnam vets and the old hippies who still occasionally yelled at each other across the room. He knew the black debutantes, who always arrived in gowns from a glittery circuit of events we’d never see. I pretty much kept to my friends at Ol’ South, with my coffee and my German pancakes, out of shyness. But Miles could sit down at any booth and talk and laugh for hours.