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.

MARYA’S NIGHT THOUGHTS had to do with the wonderland of junked cars belonging to her uncle Everard . . . and with B-52 jets threading the sky, all skies, with trails of filmy white vapor. . . . Though she didn’t sleep she found herself rising suddenly from sleep, waking, thinking calmly, Is our secret that we want to die?—we want to die together, in a nuclear explosion?—making an end of things that otherwise will never end.

She thought of Sylvester. It would give him angry comfort, she knew, if everyone died at once. If he could have a hand in it, himself.

FIVE DOLLARS DISAPPEARED from Marya’s desk—the bill had been carefully hidden beneath the pen groove in the center drawer—but she knew better than to confront Sylvester: he wasn’t a thief, after all. (I doan know what in hell you gettin’ at, Professor. I only doin’ my job, Pro-fessor.)

Then it turned out that Sylvester had taken two weeks off, that another man was taking his place temporarily. . . . Marya didn’t ask, Is he black? She did ask what was wrong with Sylvester.