Madeline was buzzed too. Three—or was it four?—drinks at Dubliners, and she felt it. But the walk would sober her up. She still needed to study when she got home, still needed to get ready for tomorrow’s classes.

So why was she spending valuable time making sure a grown man made it home okay?

Because she cared about him.

And she still wanted to ask his advice.

In class, Nye treated everybody the same. She could tell, watching him, that he didn’t want to play favorites, didn’t want to tip his hand too much about which stories students wrote were good and which ones were terrible. That was the thing she admired about Nye—he even treated the terrible writers like their work possessed some value. A couple of weeks earlier, the class had read Isaac’s latest story, a hot mess full of grammar errors and impossible plots resolved by ridiculous coincidences. Nye sat in front of the room while the rest of the class voiced their critiques. He nodded like a wise man, like one of those bearded figures in cartoons who sat on top of a mountain and told other people the meaning of life.

Madeline expected him to join in, to take Isaac to task for his piss-poor grammar and sexy robots that resolved the plot by taking off their shirts. But Nye let the class have its say, and then he stepped in and complimented Isaac on one description that occurred on the third page of the story. When he did that, Madeline looked at her copy of Isaac’s story and saw she’d noted the same thing. That one description was the best thing in the story—and Nye made sure to point it out. He tried to compliment everyone, whether they deserved it or not.

Madeline picked up her pace. Nye seemed to be moving faster, even with the alcohol. Or maybe because of its effects. He looked determined to get home in record time. Maybe he needed to piss. Or puke.

Maybe he thought she was a stalker, although he hadn’t looked back once.

What had he heard about her?

Madeline knew Nye was friends with Dr. White and Dr. Hoffman. Not only did she occasionally see the men talking in the hallways of Goodlaw—sometimes all three of them, sometimes just two of them—but she’d seen them out in town a couple of times as well. Drinking at Dubliners together, the three of them at a table in the corner, pints of beer in front of them. Once at a bluegrass concert on campus. They seemed like good friends. And both Preston and Lance spoke about Dr. Nye when he wasn’t around.