Madeline tried to think of ways to get out of it, tried to think of excuses—including using Sophia’s death and her own continuing depression—that Hoffman would believe and have to respect. But it had been four months since Sophia died, and she wondered if the statute of limitations had expired on using a friend’s death as a reason to avoid people.

And whether Hoffman knew it or not, he pressed the buttons that always worked with Madeline—he wanted to talk about school. And he wanted to talk about writing. And Madeline couldn’t say no.

In his e-mails setting up the meeting, Hoffman even dangled something that made Madeline more curious than anything else.

Been thinking about your handwritten thesis over holiday break, as I read it more. While the quill-and-ink approach worked for Austen, Dumas, Tolstoy, I may have a solution to bring you into the 21st century.

Dear God, Madeline thought. How I’d love to be writing in the twenty-first century.

She remembered growing up and going to school with shoes that were a little off from what the other kids wore. Clothes that were never quite as new. Internet access that was always spotty. Her mom always telling her to suck it up and quit whining about it.

She hated to be that kid. Hated to be dragging along at the tail end of the parade.

She’d spent three years of her college career living on hot dogs and frozen burritos and store-brand peanut butter spread on stale crackers.

Yes, she thought. I’d love a solution.

And maybe she’d overreacted to Hoffman’s behavior at Troy’s the last time, his hand resting on her knee.

Would a creep touch her in such a public place where half the professors in the university sat to grade papers and informally hold office hours?

She told herself not to be so naive. Her mom once told her, Maddy girl, it’s a man’s world. You have to do what you have to do.

So Madeline vowed to do that and nothing else.

When she entered Troy’s that day, Hoffman was already there. Bright and early, sitting at a table with the pages of her manuscript in front of him. And when she stepped to the counter to order a coffee— figuring that if she was going to get through the meeting, she needed and deserved some good caffeine—Hoffman popped up and paid for her order.

She thanked him, and when they sat down across from each other, she noticed that Hoffman appeared to have lost his usual energy, some of the smirking condescension he normally displayed. He looked a little like his puppy had just died.

He jumped right in.

“I feel like I owe you an apology before we begin talking about your thesis,” he said.