Of course, when I actually got to his office, it was empty, and the department secretary had no idea where Michael had gone or when he’d be back. When would I learn to use my damned cell phone?

As I was turning to leave, I heard voices behind me.

“Meg!” a male voice called

“Meg, dear!” a female voice added. “How are you?”

Probably symptomatic of my mood that I tensed on hearing my name. But when I turned to see who was calling, I relaxed.

Henry and Phyllis Blanke. Dr. Blanke was one of Michael’s colleagues in the drama department, and Phyllis volunteered tirelessly for whatever jobs needed doing backstage at the theater. I’d told Michael not long ago that the Blankes were two of the few sane people in the department.

“I agree,” he’d said. “But don’t tell them that. In theatrical circles, sane is a bit of a put-down.”

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I wasn’t in such a rush that I couldn’t stop to chat for a minute with the Blankes. They’d been very nice to me, not to mention vigorous supporters of Michael’s quest for tenure. I strolled down the corridor to Henry Blanke’s office.

“Come in, come in,” he said, while Phyllis hurried to move a pile of books from one of the guest chairs. As I sat down I realized that while it didn’t make up for missing Michael, seeing the Blankes did help my mood a little. Phyllis handed me a cup of green tea that she had apparently just brewed on the hot plate on the credenza. I leaned back, sipped my tea, and soaked in the mood of Henry’s cluttered but comfortable office, where theatrical memorabilia fought for center stage with relics of the 1960s counterculture.

“How are you?” I asked.

“A little shaken up,” Phyllis said. “Meg, what in the world is your grandfather up to?”

“I have no idea,” I said, taken aback. “Why? What has he done to upset you?”

“He hasn’t upset us,” Phyllis said. “The FBI did that.”

“DEA,” Henry put in.

“They weren’t DEA,” Phyllis said, in a rather cross tone. “You’re just being paranoid.”

“I’m sure we’re still in their files,” Henry said. He was gazing up at a framed vintage “Impeach Nixon Now!” poster.

“And in the FBI’s files, too,” Phyllis said. “The DEA wouldn’t be interested in us now—our normal days were a long time ago.”

I blinked in surprise. I’d have called the Blankes eminently normal, at least by drama department standards—though I suspected normal, like sane, wasn’t considered praise in theatrical circles.

Phyllis noticed my expression.

“The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws,” she said. “NORML. Henry and I were quite active in our student days.”

“And they’ve got long memories, those Feds,” Henry said. “We haven’t heard the last of this, you mark my words.”

“We really should have insisted they give us names and badge numbers and explain more clearly what agency they were from,” Phyllis said.