And when Rebecca saw that, she felt her stomach drop, like she was about to throw up. She lifted her hand to her mouth, ready to turn away and vomit.

And then Hoffman let go, stepping back into thin air, four stories above the ground.

He bounced once off the top of the building, and then his body tumbled in space like an insane acrobat. . . .

She turned away before he hit the ground.

But she heard the noise. Heard the screams and the gasps and the sirens—

She shakes her head, as if that could make the memory go away. Forever.

She knows it won’t. She knows she’ll be seeing that for the rest of her life. She hasn’t even called her mom yet, but needs to. It will be on the news. On Twitter. It likely already is, the videos students took being posted and hashtagged so the whole world can see Dr. Hoffman’s death. It will trend before the day is out.

She feels sick again. She swallows hard, trying to get some saliva into her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

She looks up when she hears a voice.

“Dr. White.”

The head of the English Department is standing in front of her. He’s not wearing a coat despite the cold. And his face is drained of color. Pretty much like everyone else’s.

She doesn’t know him very well, hasn’t taken any of his classes. She really only knows how he acted that day he came into Nye’s class to tell everyone Hoffman was taking over. And that day he acted like he didn’t want to answer any questions at all.

He looks concerned today. His eyebrows are raised, and he’s offering her a tentative smile, one meant to make her feel like it’s okay to talk to him.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks. “Would you like to go inside?”

“I feel better out here, actually. It’s cold, but . . . I like it here.”

“Sure.”

And he just stands there in front of her like he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. Rebecca can hear voices from the front of the building, where the police and the other first responders are cleaning up the mess and asking everybody questions. Where they’re taking Hoffman’s body off the ground and loading it into an ambulance . . . or a hearse or whatever it is. Students pass occasionally, all of them looking shocked, their hands covering their mouths, their phones out as they call and text friends.

“You’re in Dr. Hoffman’s class right now, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Well, really, it’s Nye’s class. But then it was Hoffman’s.”

And now . . .

Would there be anyone to teach the class? What the fuck was going on?