“Oh, you’re a psychology student, well. That explains the questionnaire, and the questionable fashion choices—I know I’ve been locked up awhile, but surely acid-wash denim has gone out of style by now. Your running shoes are new, though, or at least well maintained. Do you run, Emma?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes, mm. Were you bracing to run from me? Is that why you wore those shoes today? You’re the psychology student—I’m sure you recognize subconscious behaviors.” Gutmunsson’s eyes are dark whirlpools. He stands again and approaches the bars, as if he’s unable to sit still. “I’m significantly taller, though. I’m betting I could catch you, in a running race. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could open this cage and find out?”

Emma feels a tremble in her calves, pushes down hard. “Can I ask what you were reading, when I first arrived?”

“Rereading,” Gutmunsson corrects. “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. I’m studying the Romantic poets. It’s quite enjoyable—the language has a lovely gothic rhythm.”

“You’re studying?”

“You think I have something better to do? Should I be dribbling and playing with myself, like the other inmates here?”

“Excuse me, I meant are you formally enrolled.”

“At Georgetown University, yes. My dissertation is on the disappearance of the God concept correlating to the flowering of representations of the sublime across texts by Shaftesbury, Burke, and so on.” He makes an airy wave. “They won’t confer my degree until I leave this fine institution, of course, but that day may yet come.”

Emma hopes fervently not. “I see.”

“I see—ouch. And here I thought we were becoming friends. Actually I’m not sure you do see, unless you’re familiar with Byron.”

“I know a little.”

“Well, that is extraordinary. Most people of the Podunk rural classes remain entirely ignorant of the existence of art.”

Emma reaches down inside herself for her credit class in classical literature and recites: “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep Sea, and music in its roar.”

The effect is immediate. Rapid movement in the cell as Gutmunsson thrusts himself against the bars. His expression is electric, grotesque with a nameless hunger, and his voice booms like thunder in the long room. “I LOVE NOT MAN THE LESS, BUT NATURE MORE! FROM THESE OUR INTERVIEWS, IN WHICH I STEAL! FROM ALL I MAY BE, OR HAVE BEEN BEFORE! TO MINGLE WITH THE UNIVERSE, AND FEEL! WHAT I CAN NE’ER EXPRESS, YET CANNOT ALL CONCEAL!”

In the sudden resounding quiet, Emma realizes she’s taken a step back. She forces her breathing to calm. The manila folder is clammy from her grip: Her hands are clenched around the cardboard. She finds it difficult to relax them.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?” Gutmunsson sinks away from the bars, long fingers still gripping the metal. Composed as before, his lips bloom red as he smiles. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself—the acoustics in here lend themselves to oration. You surprised me, too, with the Byron.”