She had agreed to drive him to school instead of sending him on the bus because of his suitcases and his one box of books and supplies, but she had only helped him carry his luggage to the dorm room once, on his first trip, when she had been dramatically teary eyed and hugged him every few minutes, smoothing his hair with her hands and calling him her baby. Today they were both perfunctory and economical in farewell. She did try for a burst of feeling at the end. “I’ve got so I enjoy having you around, Ronny.”

“Me too, Ma.”

“You’re not such a know-it-all turd like you used to be in high school.”

He’d always had to translate her bluntness into something livable. “Thanks, I guess.”

She handed him a folded ten-dollar bill and kissed his forehead, standing there a moment, thin and brown, dressed in a one-piece shorts jumper and white sandals, her toenails painted and her hair brushed out. She was barely twenty years older than he. “Take care, son. Be good. Study hard.”

She would want him to stand there while she drove away so he did, while a couple of other new arrivals walked past him, one with a desk lamp trailing an electrical cord, the other with a folded chair and a set of pillows, stopping a couple of times to hitch the pillows higher.

SEPTEMBER

One day he had been standing at the balcony railing out of the heat of his room, tee shirt and jeans, hair blowing a bit, an afternoon storm rolling in. While the football players were drifting over from the field house, he kept watch across the green of the rugby field. Ben was climbing the stairs at the end of the wing. He stopped on the landing and looked up. After a moment he waved. Trudged into his room without looking again. Classes had started. Ronny was being patient.

Otis stopped by before dinner at the training table, where the whole team ate; he asked whether Ronny could proofread for him later in the week. Just proofread, give him some feedback, as if they were colleagues. “Sure thing,” Ronny said.

Brows furrowed, Otis blew out a breath; he was standing in the door frame, filling it. “I got pretty good at my deadlines in summer school,” he said.

“You still planning on journalism? Maybe next spring you could write some for The Tar Heel.”

“You think I could?”

“We always need people. Cover women’s swimming or something.”

He grinned, scratching at a mole high up on his skull; his hair was cropped so short you could see the scalp. “Maybe. I got a lot of work to do this year. Coach is busting us pretty good.” He was wearing a gold cross at his neck. Ronny remembered the Bible beside his bed. “I’m not rooming with Ben this year, he’ll probably be bugging you soon. I know he was talking about it. You’re his pet tutor, he says.” Made a chuckle-sound, as if it were a funny joke, then spit in the trash can. “Yeah. Anyway.” Ducking his head, he backed away. “Later.”