When she opens her eyes at the end of the block, the action has thickened. Warmth pulses from kids all around. A boy’s pants hang below his pubic hair. He pumps his hips in a pantomime of sex. Two girls vomit into the same puddle, giggling between heaves and pointing out curious bits. A boy rattles by with a backpack of bottles. Another kid drops a printout on a knife, demonstrating how sharp it is, but the printout slides off unharmed. The kid who died last year was only an extension school student, so the university didn’t have to care. One email alert, and that was it. All the ghastly events of Madison are treated with Midwestern good cheer. Like in the sixties there was a slasher who’d visit Carla’s library, slice up a couple girls’ arms, and leave. They never caught him. At work people tap you with plastic cutlery and yell, “Gotcha!”

Carla takes in the sights, not jumping any guys yet. She’s working up an appetite. The longer she delays, the hotter she burns, postponing pleasure, seeking her target. When she holds off longest, she goes the most wild.

Every house on Mifflin is open to a party. Kids move into places on this street just for today. Boys do keg stands on porches, play beer pong on roofs, laughing and screaming, cheeks wind-burned. A few limp by, bleeding. One from the nose, one from the lip, one from the elbow, one from the eye. The blood is shocking against drab jackets and gray jeans. Carla should be in a waterpark now, resting on a tube in a lazy river.

Carla never told Dave about her conversations with Shane or the intervention. She let them float apart, farther and farther, until she announced she was moving in with a friend. There was no official breakup. She said she needed space. She slept with other guys and Dave found out and retreated. He never chased her down.

As Carla crosses Broom Street and passes her apartment, a lone woman in the sea of boys sticks out as familiar. She’s older than Carla, with faded orange hair. She talks to two kids in frosh-pride sweatpants. “I think you’ve got a great plan there, Raymond,” she tells one boy, a redhead whose vertebrae poke through his shirt.

Both boys are underdressed in matching UW T-shirts, both sport mottled purple arms. Carla pictures them clinging to her and groaning, one per side. Her knees droop. The boys are younger than she usually lets herself like. Lately, the young ones appeal most. They’re so far from pain.

“You’ll go out and achieve your goals,” says the woman. “It’s healthy to have goals.”

Carla slows as she passes, working out how she knows that scratchy voice. It’s her sponsor, Shawna. Carla didn’t even recognize her. How pathetic.

“Carla!” Shawna yells, churning her arm on the thin blue air.

Shawna reels Carla into a lung-crushing hug. “Hi,” Carla says, voice muffled against Shawna’s breasts. Shawna finally releases her grip. Carla pulls her coat closed, hoping Shawna didn’t feel she’s not wearing a bra.