Coming down the hallway to Tim’s office, he was surprised to hear voices. He knew Tim liked to keep evening hours, but up to this point he’d only been here during the day because, of course, he had obligations at night—dinner, a story for his son (they were reading A Journey to the Center of the Earth together), class preparation, bedtime—and he’d expected to find Tim alone, his feet on the desk, a book in his hand. And he wanted to find him alone, wanted to hand him his report (and Joanie’s, in a sealed envelope) and sit there and talk it all through because he had a thousand things to say and he just couldn’t keep a lid on them any longer. But Tim had a visitor—visitors—and he felt a sharp stab of disappointment even as he rounded the corner and saw Ken and Charlie there (and Ken’s wife, who wasn’t even a student), slouched against the doorframe of Tim’s office. And Tim, beyond them, his feet propped up and the desk lamp casting an annulus of golden light round his face.

“Fitz,” Ken called over one shoulder. “Hello, welcome—hey, come join the club.”

Charlie turned round, looking surprised. “Hi, Fitz,” he said, but his voice had no animation, as if he weren’t really there, and that got the alarm bells ringing all right, even before Fanchon, her face shining and beautiful, gave him an electric smile and he heard himself fumbling over his words, “Hi, I was . . . I thought—Tim, is Tim in?”

“Who’s that?” Tim called from inside the office. “Fitz?” He made as if to draw down his legs and rise from the desk, but then seemed to think better of it. “Come on in,” he said, summoning his grin. “Good to see you. And wait, what’s that in your hand?”

What was in his hand? The question didn’t register because it was self-evident, wasn’t it, besides which, as he came to the door, he saw there were two other people in the office with Tim, and that made him hesitant. One was the blonde from the other night, Tim’s friend—girlfriend—and the other was the cadaverous Englishman Michael, who wasn’t a professor and wasn’t a student but who seemed to shadow Tim practically everywhere he went. Clumsily, he raised his hand with the two envelopes in it and murmured, “I brought the reports—from the, the session the other night? One for Joanie, my wife, that is, and one of my own, and I hope it’s not too long, or, or—”

Tim waved the objection away. “Not to worry, Fitz—the way I see it, the more detailed, the better. But come on in—you want to talk? Have a seat.”