“I’m afraid I haven’t,” I say, trying to swallow my heart. “Done any of my own work, that is. I have studied it, though. It is a fascinating place.”

“It must be so interesting to live there,” Valerie agrees. “Do you think it would be worth it to take a field trip? Or maybe an independent study? I’d really like to do some fieldwork.”

“You want to go into the swamp?” What is she doing, I wonder; is she trying to distract me from what I have found? “It’s dangerous. The swamp swallows people whole and doesn’t even spit out their bones.”

“Oh,” she says, taking a small involuntary step back.

Briefly my mind flits to the possibilities of working with an apprentice in the field, the splendid conversations and the adventures we could have digging for small artifacts of forgotten civilizations, for Meriday’s decomposing dolls, for Wind Walker’s pipe, for the bones of the dead, the bones of children, the bones of those he’s killed—

“Do you know what this door leads to?” I say instead.

“I don’t know. I think there’s a faculty bathroom at the other end of the hall, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No.” Suddenly the wide hallway feels oppressive, the fluorescent lights harsh against the dim corners, washing out people’s faces and glaring strangely on their foreheads so that their eyes disappear into indistinct black pockets. There are no windows in this hallway, so we are enclosed, like the long narrow hallways of Wakefield Manor and its rooms draped with heavy curtains to keep out the light of the world.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I tell her, needing to get away from here. Surely my key would not have opened it anyway. This is not the same door. Reality and I haven’t parted ways just yet; I am only mad north by northwest.

On the long drive home, I watch the countryside rush by and feel embraced by a state of calm. Now everything is opened up to me. How silly it was to fear that locked door, here with the sun beaming in through the windows. Next week, I will be wonderful with my students. I will be animated, I will engage them, and I will not be afraid of mysterious doors, because I will open the one at home and put it behind me. The thought brings me comfort.

How nice it is to drive, alone on the road. What a joy are the trees that stand so tall and proud even through their dying autumn, that lean this way and that to question who will inherit this earth of theirs, these trees that transcend time. What a joy is the day with its sun on the long dewy grass that hides multitudes of insects and other tiny creatures in its gently waving skin. I could stay out here all day and never tire of looking: the light, the sun. Why do we shut out life with curtains and shield ourselves from the marvel of the flowers that grow in their perfect golden spirals?