“Me,” said Ronny.

“Fuck me dead. It’s the Brainhead.” Tate looked half awake, not sure of himself. “Where you been, boy? We need you down here.”

“Just here for a minute.”

“What?”

“I have to go.”

Ben was sobbing, collapsed, and Tate was staring at him. Nothing of his swagger, nudging Ben with his foot, kneeling down. “Jesus, Ben.” He looked at Ronny. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I haven’t seen him since the funeral. I guess it all came back.”

Tate helpless, faced with a problem he could not beat down. “Help me get him to the room.”

Ronny shook his head. “You can do that. I need to get home.”

“You should let me drive you,” Ben said, between sucking sobs, “I told you.”

“It’s okay.” He took a step toward Ben again, looked at Tate. “I wish I could see you guys Saturday.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be sweet.”

He knelt, looked at Ben. To feel all this, too much; he had to be cold; he was cold, his clothes soaked. “It’ll be okay,” he said, and Ben watched him. “Just beat Duke. Okay?”

He nodded, small and broken. Ronny walked away, down the stairs, the two of them still there, Tate still kneeling. Flights of steps between him and them and he could still see the picture, even when he stepped into the washing of the weather, a cold enfolding, so sharp and yet so numb. It was the right frame for the night. He set out across the rugby field, through the mud and wet, where they could not see him; crossed into the woods, followed the path, step after step. Toward the boardinghouse. It was done; he had gone to Ehringhaus. Ben was barely there. But they were not finished, he and Ben. It should have brought him joy. Instead, only rain, sorrow, and night, sleepless, wondering what would follow.

Beat Duke

FRIDAY MORNING JAMAL BROUGHT RONNY A manila envelope, battered and wrinkled, the old address label struck through with a pen, UNC Athletic Department. Ronny was dressing for class, dazed from lack of sleep. Jamal said, “Guy dropped this by the house for you yesterday, while you were at The Tar Heel. Big dude.”

“Yeah?” Ronny tore off the tip of the flap of the envelope. “How’s Miss Dee, you seen her yet?”

“I don’t think she’s doing so good this morning. She called me Henry again.” He grimaced, standing with his arms folded.

“Her niece is coming by this morning, I think.”

“I hope so. I can’t hang around. I don’t want her to set the kitchen on fire.”

“She won’t.” A ticket to the Duke game fluttered onto his desk. A note that said, “Beat Duke.” Scrawled, block letters.

“Oh, nice,” said Jamal. “You’re going to the game on Saturday?”

“I guess I am.” He took a deep breath.

“Shit, dude, you couldn’t have got two tickets?”

Ronny scratched the back of his neck, stared at the ticket. “It’s a gift. One of the guys at Ehringhaus. I used to tutor them.”