Loudermilk the Younger, at last free of unwanted parental context and thus simply “Loudermilk,” and known to Harry via sophomoric Weltliteratur, was lucky, liberated, and on some sort of mission to amaze the world. His unsinkable poise and insatiable appetite for indelible deeds (strolling across campus at high noon wearing only a blue sock; running a competitive campaign for student-body president on a golden retriever, edibles, and Lara Croft–based platform, aka, “GRELC NOW!”; insisting on being allowed to rush several sororities, one of which offered him membership) fascinated and enraged just about everyone. Harry preferred to hover. He was at the center of things but invisible due to his friend’s outsized shine. Fast-forward through eighteen months of sustained Bildung and by senior year Harry and Loudermilk were inseparable, which, of a crisp October morning, was when Loudermilk remarked, apropos of what seemed like nothing, that this was it, the last straw, that he absolutely could not and would not do it anymore, that The Cleaner had really crossed a line this time and now it was time to tee up for some hardball.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what this or, for that matter, it meant, given the mixing of sports metaphors, but inferred that The Cleaner had probably offered to pay for the rest of Loudermilk’s life as a graduation gift. Loudermilk, who hadn’t worked a day of his twenty-one-year existence and whose grades were only saved from complete and utter turpitude by the pronounced mediocrity of the school, fell into a deep depression the reality of which he attested to by locking himself into a room and refusing sex or recreational drugs for approximately 2.5 days. His fast concluded, Loudermilk reemerged. He was accosted on his way to debauch himself by Greg, the floater and creative writing major they’d picked up in exchange for a penthouse suite. Greg was lyrically inclined and as per usual was requesting an audience for his latest poem.

Loudermilk bowed politely. He must have been in an altered state, an odd mood brought on by his prolonged detoxifying time away from customary pursuits, because he actually lay down on the common-room floor. He shut his eyes. “Honor us, Greg,” he said.

“All right, you guys.” Greg stood in a doorway. He shrugged off his yellow hoodie. His hair had recently been re-dyed black and his narrow face held misty eyes over which bluish lids fluttered. “I’m going to read you a poem.”

Harry loitered in his own doorway. He gazed down at the prostrate Loudermilk.

Greg took a step. “OK.” He brought a paper to his nose. “The name of my poem is”—he stared up into the ceiling tiles—“‘One Mind.’” This safely accomplished, Greg coughed. “The first word is crossed out, so I can’t read it to you.”

Loudermilk raised his head. “Who crossed it out?”

“I did.” Greg blinked. “I am the author.”