Marianne led them down the path to the fiction cabana, where ten students barely fit and where the raftered ceiling would barely clear Tad’s six-and-a-half-foot frame. Tad kept stopping so that Matt could take his photograph, and by the time they made it to the classroom he was sweating profusely. Marianne had tried to persuade the two other workshop leaders, whose classrooms were larger and better air-conditioned, to switch for the day with Eric, but Tom refused on behalf of both of them. “We don’t want that guy in our spaces,” he told her. “We might not have had any say in allowing him here, but that doesn’t mean we have to accommodate you.”

“I didn’t have any say in it either,” Marianne argued. She was surprised that Tom blamed her and not Eric, but she was also surprised that he’d returned to campus at all. “It wasn’t my idea. But one day, that’s it, and it’s over.”

“You’re in charge, aren’t you?” Tom asked, and she hadn’t known how to answer.

Class had already started when she opened the door. Someone had thought to remove the table and gather the metal folding chairs in a circle.

“Welcome,” said Eric, nearly knocking over his chair to get to the door. “We’re so glad to have you, Representative Tucker.”

Half the class stood, eagerly extending their hands, as Tucker walked in. The other half stayed awkwardly seated, wearing tight smiles. Davonte, whose newly polished manuscript had been bumped so they could workshop Tad’s story, sat with his arms folded across his chest.

“Davonte Gold,” said Tad, extending his hand, then balling it slowly into a fist. “I loved Hurt Songs, brother. Great album.”

Davonte nodded, but did not fist-bump Tad Tucker.

“Well, it’s very crowded in here, so I’ll see you all at the reading later,” said Regina, backing out of the doorway. “Marianne?”

“Marianne wanted to observe the workshop,” said Eric, widening his eyes at Marianne.

Marianne had expressed no such desire, but she knew the look Eric was giving her, had given it herself to teachers and administrators when faced with a particularly volatile class. For a moment she felt sorry for Eric, dressed in his lame GWGW polo, badly in need of a haircut and a shave. When his book first came out, he’d interviewed for a job at Sarah Lawrence, and she pictured the stately room he might have taught in, the sturdy, genteel furnishings, the well-prepared young students he might have had there. “I did,” she said, taking a seat in the corner and waving good-bye to Regina.