“Beware the quiet man,” Reggie said, in a tone like a preacher, quoting from something Matt didn’t recognize. “For while others speak, he watches. And while others act, he plans. And when they finally rest, he strikes.”

Reggie dropped a wadded bill onto the table.

“I’m not taking your money.” Matt stood, cracked his back.

“Hell you ain’t,” Reggie said, flicking the bill toward Matt. “You’re a film student—you’re gonna need it.” He cackled.

Matt reluctantly scooped up the money. He looked up at the dark clouds rolling into the city. He loved the smell of an imminent rain. “At least let me get you breakfast at the dining hall. I’ve got some meal swipes left.”

“Nah,” Reggie said. “They didn’t seem so happy last time.…”

Reggie was right. Limousine liberalism had its limits, as Matt had learned from his time with the privileged student body of New York University. He was an oddity to most of his classmates, an apolitical Midwesterner.

“Fuck ’em,” Matt said, gesturing for Reggie to join him, when he heard a familiar voice from behind.

“There you are. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Matt turned and saw the resident assistant from his dorm. Why would the RA be looking for him? Phillip usually appeared only if the music was too loud or the halls smelled like weed.

“There are federal agents at the dorm,” Phillip said, concern in his voice. “They want to talk with you.”

“Agents?”

“Yeah, the FBI showed up at six this morning. They said you’re not answering your phone.”

“What do they want?” Matt asked. It was probably about his older brother. Ever since that fucking documentary, everything was about Danny.

“I don’t know. But if you’re doing something out of the dorm you shouldn’t, I don’t—”

“Relax, man. I’m not—” Matt paused, took a breath. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll go see what they want.”

Phillip let out an exasperated sigh and sauntered off.

“You in some trouble?” Reggie asked.

“I guess I’d better go find out. Rain check on breakfast?”

Reggie nodded. “Be careful, Affleck. Nothing good ever came of federal agents knocking on your door at six in the mornin’.”

A half hour later Matt sat on his small dorm bed, the room spinning.

The lead FBI agent—Matt couldn’t remember her name—was talking again, but it was just a jumble of words. When Matt didn’t respond, the agent knelt in front of him, a concerned look on her face. Her partner, a lean guy in a dark suit, hovered in the background, shifting on his feet.

“I spoke with the dean,” the agent was saying, “and they’ve arranged for a grief counselor. And you don’t have to worry about your classes.”

Matt tried to stand, but his legs buckled, blood rushing to his head. The agent guided him back to the bed.