Cal was feeling pretty proud of the fact that it only took two more beers before he had the courage to keep his appointment with Professor Reyes and the others. He arrived promptly, if not eagerly, clutching his book bag and a flashlight of his own.

Tonight I won’t touch anything or even look too hard at anything, he promised himself. I’ll stand still, I’ll watch what Devon does—which is really not such a bad way to pass the time—and that will be that.

But they were a man down when he arrived—specifically a Devon down.

Immediately, Cal thought of the folded piece of paper in his father’s suit pocket. This isn’t good.

Just a coincidence, he assured himself. Devon was an athlete; he probably pulled a muscle in the weight room or took a bad fall in practice.

“Where’s Devon?” he asked, sticking his hands in his pockets and eyeing the two girls, then Professor Reyes. He had left the pipe back in his room, locked in a combination safe under his bed.

“It’s disappointing, but Devon won’t be joining us,” Professor Reyes lamented with a heavy sigh. “And since he was your supervision, that means you’re off the hook for this evening, Mr. Erickson.”

“Oh,” he said blankly. “Bummer.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’re devastated.”

“I’ll be going, then. . . .”

“But we’ll be seeing you tomorrow evening, the usual time.” Professor Reyes took out her key ring and turned away, finished with him. “Girls, I want to start in the office right away today. If you find another mention of that boy, you bring it to me. No need to make copies of anything, just bring me the originals.”

Cal didn’t dare let out a relieved breath until he had cleared the corner and was already bounding up the stairs. Devon’s unexplained absence was weird, but probably nothing. Cal’s relief was cut short, however, when he arrived back at his room.

He could hear the commotion through the door.

“This is BULLSHIT.”

Micah. Micah didn’t yell. Micah never raised his voice above a low Southern drawl. This was—

“Who told you?” he was screaming now. “Who told you!?”

Cal peered inside the door, afraid something would come hurling toward him if he busted in too quickly. His roommate paced the border between their halves of the room. The phone clutched in his white-knuckled fist looked like it was about to shatter.

“You couldn’t tell me this in person? You had to fucking text me?”

Cal could hear a high, frantic voice on the other end. A girl’s voice. He wedged himself farther inside, feeling his pulse crank up a few notches as he fit the pieces together. They were fighting, breaking up again, but this was sooner than he expected. Usually they at least lasted for a few weeks. . . .

“I’m not that person anymore,” Micah was saying, calmer now but still with that hint of breathless desperation Cal had never heard before. “You know I’m not that person.”

Finally Micah noticed Cal and swiveled around to face him with wet, shining cheeks.

“Is everything okay?” Cal mouthed silently.

“I have to go,” Micah said into the phone, hanging up and throwing it savagely at his bed. It skipped across the mattress, bumping against the pillow. “She broke up with me,” he said in a hollow whisper, staring at the floor as if he had never seen it before. “Again.”

The next morning, the goatee was gone.