She had to resist the impulse to yank the drawer out and throw it to the floor—to yank all the drawers out—to give herself up to rage. A flame seemed to pass through her, white-hot, scalding. It was so unfair: she needed that money, every penny of that money, she’d worked in the library in that flickering fluorescent light until she staggered with exhaustion, and even then she’d been forced to beg her supervisor to allow her a few more hours. Her scholarships were only for tuition; she needed that money. And the pen—she could never replace the pen.

It was too much: something in her chest gave way: she burst into tears like an overgrown child. She had never heard such great gulping ugly sobs. And the girl in the doorway—Phyllis, whose room was across the hall: shy, timid, sweet-faced Phyllis—actually tried to hold her in her arms and comfort her. It’s so unfair, it’s so unfair, Marya wept, what am I going to do. . . .

EVENTUALLY THE WALLET was returned to Marya, having been found in a trash can up the street. Nothing was missing but the money, as it turned out. Nothing but the money! Marya thought savagely. The wallet itself—simulated crocodile, black, with a fancy brass snap—now looked despoiled, worn, contemptible. It had been a present from Emmett two years before and she supposed she’d had it long enough.

She examined it critically inside and out. She wondered what the thief had thought. Marya Knauer’s things, Marya Knauer’s “personal” possessions: were they worth stealing, really?

FOR WEEKS AFTERWARD Marya dreaded returning to her room. Though she was careful to lock the door all the time now it always seemed, when she stepped inside, that someone had been there . . . that something was out of place. Sometimes when she was halfway up the long steep hill to Stafford Hall she turned impulsively and ran back to her dormitory seven blocks away, to see if she’d remembered to lock the door. You’re breaking down, aren’t you, she mocked herself as she ran, her heart pumping, perspiration itching beneath her arms, this is how it begins, isn’t it: cracking up.