Hustling up the long stairway that leads from the faculty parking lot to the main campus, he has a moment for reflection. Hair still damp, he begins to think—which is pretty dangerous at the best of times. Before a breakup, it’s practically a death wish. Thinking is overrated, anyway, he philosophizes as he lumbers up the stairs, pausing halfway for a breather. A freshman, maybe a sophomore—it’s definitely the backside of an undertwenty—dashes past and continues the ascent. Probably doesn’t have a sticker, he imagines, consoling himself with this notion between breaths. Couldn’t afford it, so she’s gotta park in the outer lots. This makes him feel better about himself, his station in life, if only briefly. He turns now, readying himself for the final push to the summit, all the while wondering who the genius was who decided to put such a steep set of stairs next to the faculty parking area. “A woman,” he mutters aloud, trying to take the last two steps simultaneously. He just catches the edge of his left Rockport on the granite lip of the landing and goes down hard. On one knee. Assessing the damage, he spots a tiny tear in his Dockers—hardly noticeable, but it’s going to bug him for the rest of the day. “Definitely some woman architect …” he says absently, not to anyone in particular but just as a statement of fact. He remembers reading it somewhere. In one of those crappy color brochures he’d received in his welcome packet, maybe. Women, for the most part, designed the whole college, and now it seems as though he’s the one who’s going to have to pay for it.