But there was a difference in the way they each spoke about him. Dr. White was always complimentary—he talked about Nye’s book of short stories or his teaching, pumping him up to the students and telling everyone how lucky they were to have him on faculty at Commonwealth. Lance Hoffman was different. Sure, he talked about Dr. Nye and praised his teaching, but Lance always did it with a little smirk on his face. Madeline didn’t think it was anything personal between Lance and Nye—Lance pretty much talked about everyone with a smirk on his face. Students, faculty, administrators, politicians, writers. They all got the smirk.

And Madeline had intentionally not told Nye that Hoffman was helping with the thesis. Her Honors College adviser—an older professor with a white beard and dirty glasses—told her that she had to work with the thesis director first. Only the director.

“You can show the thesis to the rest of the committee when the director says it’s okay,” he said. And she listened. And wondered how he could see her through the dirty glasses.

Madeline felt guilty going to Hoffman for help, like she was cheating. But Nye was pretty out of it, and Hoffman was eager to jump in and advise. And he did it pretty well.

Nye made a beeline for a small house with a light burning on the back porch. The road went uphill a little there as it approached the house, and finally he seemed to be slowing down. Madeline made up some ground but then thought it might be best to back off, to just let him go on inside on his own. If her goal had been to make sure he got inside his house okay, she could stop and watch from a distance and then turn and be on her way. Maybe it was the wrong time to talk to him. Maybe she was overreacting about the thesis. Maybe no one else would read it or come to the defense.

But did Madeline want to take that risk?

No matter what she decided about the thesis, she was certain it was the wrong time to ask.

Nye didn’t need to know she was behind him. He didn’t need to wonder if she was some kind of freaky stalker.

Just as she decided to turn and go home, Nye stumbled.

He didn’t fall, but he came close. And once he righted himself and regained his balance, he stood on the side of the road, a block from his house, and looked utterly and completely lost. Madeline wondered if he felt sick. Maybe he was going to vomit right on the sidewalk.

He wobbled again, lifted his hand to his head.

“Shit,” she said. And rushed forward.