He had prepared a speech for whoever sat sentinel at the front desk, but it was empty, a small soundless TV flickering a rerun of Seinfeld. He laughed and glanced around the empty room. A scratched thick wooden door to the left of the desk was propped open half an inch, enough to allow him to see the sunlit grass, a concrete stoop: the courtyard. He sidled toward the door and opened it, walked outside.

The courtyard seemed empty save for a large blue jay splashing in the birdbath, looking over its shoulder at him, concluding he was of little concern. The corner where he had sat with Amy just a few weeks before was shrouded in shadow, just as he remembered it. He began to walk toward where he knew the bench was, behind the tree, tilted to the left where it sank in moss-soft soil. He’d sit and wait; he had something to tell her and a sleep-depriving need to see her, touch her.

He walked closer; someone occupied his seat. Behind the curtain of Spanish moss a figure leaned against the armrest, feet on top of the bench, head bent over folded legs. A twig snapped under Nick’s foot. The figure’s head shot up and looked directly at him.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He stopped, began to turn, then laughed. Amy sat before him, staring at him, her head tipped on top of her knees. He couldn’t see her whole face, but he knew her body, the tilt of her head.

“Nick?”

He walked under the moss. “Yep.”

“How . . . ?”

“I have my ways.” He laughed. She didn’t.

“You can’t just come here.”

“Why not? You were waiting for me.”

“No, I wasn’t. I always come out here . . . to read, grade papers.”

Nick swept his hand over the empty bench. “Did you forget your work today?”

She moaned and dropped her head back down on her knees.

“I wanted to tell you before I told the OWP. I had the plant analyzed and it is definitely a buckthorn. Norah can take it to the Heritage Preserve,” Nick said.

“I thought Brenton was doing that.”

“Well, I had a lab that could get to it faster—owed me a favor.”

“Nick, that is awesome news, but you could’ve called me.”

“I know. I tried not to come—” He leaned down and looked directly in her eyes. “It’s terrible, you know, fucking terrible to need to see someone as much as I need to see you.”

She looked up now. “You smell like whiskey.”

“I told you . . . I tried not to come. I stopped at McNalley’s for a few with the guys after work, but I couldn’t sit still—couldn’t find anything to talk about—and I knew you were thirty minutes away. Thirty minutes. Christ, for the past twenty-five years you’ve been on another planet, and today you were thirty minutes away. How could I not come?”

“Nick.”