Just outside the main classroom building, they ran into the proctor of their dorm, an avuncular sort named Rich Stephenson. The dorm proctors were chosen from the more responsible members of the senior class. They tended to seem older than seventeen and be a bit overweight. “How’s it going, you guys?” Rich asked as he fell into step with them.

“Okay,” replied Gerald. “We’re on our way to freshman English. Rashid here just had his first taste of Latin with Mr. Washington.”

“Yikes,” said Rich. “Wooden Washington. How’d it go?”

Rashid and Gerald both laughed. “That’s what y’all call him?” said Rashid.

“Well, I think it fits. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” said Rashid. “He’s a pretty tough dude, huh?”

“Listen, I had him freshman year, and I did all right, but I practically got sick before every exam. It’s like he thinks if he lets up for one minute, they’re gonna run him out of here on a rail. Just keep your head down and you’ll get through it. Too bad you didn’t have anybody to warn you to take French. I sure as shit could have used the advice.” Rich grinned. “This here’s my stop. See you gentlemen later.”

The boys watched him go and continued to their English class, still laughing a little over Mr. Washington’s nickname. Old Wooden Washington ain’t gonna wear me out, thought Rashid as he took his place next to Gerald in the airy room and turned his attention to the woman writing on the board. I’m out here by myself. I gotta take this shot.

The thing was, Rashid realized as he stared at the mountain of books before him in his dorm’s basement study area that evening, that he didn’t even know where to start. The room was quiet—no one else had come down to start homework before lights out yet—but Rashid’s throat was tight with panic, his breath short. He’d never be able to finish all this. They’d just find him here a week from now, staring at these books. Frozen. He swallowed, once, twice, three times. The lump was still there. So he picked up his Latin book and looked at the assignment. Okay. Okay. He forced himself to focus on the words swimming on the page.

After he’d been working for about half an hour and completed maybe an eighth of the translating he was supposed to do, Gerald came into the study room with another guy from their floor, Scott Hayward. Scott was big, blond, broad-shouldered, a freshman like Rashid and Gerald. He looked as though he would smell of hay. They exchanged brief heys and flopped down to study in the stuffing-sprung armchairs around the room. All remained quiet for a few minutes, and then Scott spoke. “You know, this is kind of crazy.”