I wandered across campus to my favorite coffee shop for a blueberry muffin at lunchtime. On my way back, I walked past Hilary Gill’s office. Her … the door was open. The room had been cleared of all of her belongings, her books, her tchotchkes, and had been expertly cleaned. The surfaces were spotless and wet looking under the lights that had been left on. It looked as if the place had been cleansed of her blood and breath. I supposed that it had been just that. It occurred to me that I didn’t know how young Gill had killed herself. I never asked anyone, never read about it, and, frankly, didn’t care to know. It was tragic that her life had become so difficult, but no life is required to continue; no life will continue forever. I hoped that she had found what she wanted, what she needed. I lost my desire to work and packed up my notes.

I ran into Finley Huckster as I exited the building.

“Hot enough for you?” he asked. “Don’t you hate it when people say that?”

“Yeah, it’s hot enough.”

“How is the summer treating you? How’s your daughter?”

“She’s having a rough time.” I was very close to telling him that she had died, but somehow, true as it may have seemed, it felt like a betrayal. “We’re dealing with it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Huck.”

“What are you up to? Feel like a game of squash?”

“Not today.” I looked past him across the sparely populated campus. “I have an appointment downtown.”

“Some other time.”

“You bet.”

“You know, anytime you want to talk.”

“Thanks, Huck. How’s your family?”

“All fine.”

“Well, squash next week,” I said.

“Definitely.”

Little was as depressing as a downtown bar at three in the afternoon. One couldn’t have the excuse of seeking out mixed nuts and popcorn as a lunchtime snack. One was too early for so-called happy hour. So, the visit was either the product of depression or of a planned meeting that needn’t be talked about. My tavern of choice, a loose term—choice, not tavern—was on Fourth Street just east of Spring, just a couple of blocks from skid row. I had always admired the keyhole-shaped entry and the door that didn’t quite close tightly. The last time I was there, I ended up in a fight. That was perhaps my ambition that afternoon. The bartender gave me a long look like he might have remembered me. If he did, he didn’t say anything and apparently gave me no further thought. I was the only pathetic patron in the pathetic place, but still he gave me my space, either fixing or pretending to fix the soda machine.

I nursed the same cheap scotch and ice for twenty minutes. Finally, the bartender came back to me. “Are you waiting for somebody?”