To Gregory Hemstock, whose office was a few doors down from hers, she complained lightly, laughingly, of their “not always very competent” janitor. And Gregory laughed in turn, admitting that he now emptied his own wastepaper basket and did some dusting and sweeping once in a while, when things got too disgraceful. Should we really be doing such things, Marya wondered, when after all the man was being paid and it was his job; and Gregory said no, of course they shouldn’t, but none of them was in a position to complain (“to appear to be less than perfectly happy here—if you understand my point”), and in his own case he didn’t really mind a little housekeeping now and then. In fact, Gregory said suddenly, would Marya like him to clean her office too?—once a week or so, nothing systematic.

ONE MIDWINTER AFTERNOON when Marya was working late in her office, two of her colleagues—Florence and Ralph—dropped by to ask if she’d like to join them for dinner in town. (They gave every appearance of being a couple these days, inclined to outbursts of laughter and unexpected little kindnesses. Like asking Marya Knauer to dinner.)

But Marya said she couldn’t accept, she had too much work to do . . . she was swamped, she said, with work. Her hair was in her eyes and her skin was pale and slightly clammy.

Was she going to stay there much longer, in the building, alone? Florence asked. It was going on seven.

Marya hadn’t noticed the time. She often worked late, she said.

So they went away; and she forgot them within a few minutes. She liked the building at this time of day, evening—students never interrupted her, the telephone never rang. If she turned to look out the window she saw only, reflected against the darkness, her own tremulous reflection. But she did not feel at all tremulous: she felt stolid, resolute. This was her office; her name was even on the door.

Farther down the corridor came the sound of vacuuming. The thump of the heavy-duty machine, the muffled companionable roar, Sylvester working late. He often worked late these days because (so Marya had heard) he came in late. Someone had mentioned that his drinking was getting serious and he would really have to be disciplined by the union soon, if not fired. And where would he go? Marya asked.

She immersed herself in her work—sketching out the first draft of an article, writing pages of commentary on her students’ term papers, preparing the next day’s classes—and when she was next aware of the time it was already past eight o’clock. The minutes had passed so swiftly, she’d forgotten even to be hungry. She had forgotten the circumstances of her situation, here in the old Humanities Building.

Most of the lights in the building had been extinguished. Sylvester had gone home, everyone had gone home, only Marya Knauer remained behind . . . groping her way along the pitch-black corridor until she came to the stairway, where there was a light switch she could turn on. If she could find it.