But it was too late. The woman, whose name she still did not know, neatly deposited her Kleenex in Marianne’s trash bin and thanked her for her time. Marianne knew she should run after her, apologize, but instead she waited until the woman was safely on her way before sneaking out of the office. Hadn’t her own professors guarded their time? Marianne was pretty sure she’d once seen Phil Levine, in his seventies, sprinting away from one of her more careerist peers.

In the dining hall, the buffet line was long but not discontented; writers chatted amiably, passed tongs and plates and napkins. And the food looked unexpectedly promising—blackened grouper with some kind of fresh salsa, salad greens, stuffed peppers. Spooning salsa onto her fish, Marianne overheard the words “tough” and “challenging” and “different” but not “crazy” or “mean” or “I want my money back.” The office complainer was already seated with other students. Maybe she’d forget about Marianne’s slip. Maybe she hadn’t noticed—though Marianne thought that was unlikely.

Eric was sitting at a round table near the window, leafing impatiently through a pile of papers. His plate rested off to the side, untouched, and he didn’t look up as Marianne approached. She took the seat across from him and reached for his plastic cup of Coke.

“Do you ever forget where you are?” she asked, taking a sip through the straw. “Like, you wake up in the morning and have no idea how you got here? Or you space out and forget who you’re talking to?”

Eric frowned, marking one of the papers with a red pen. Marianne knew he wasn’t listening to her—he was unable to pay attention to anything when he was reading. Back when they were dating, she used to make up nonsense sentences to see if she could get his attention. She thought she’d better not do that now. He looked as if he’d been up all night. His hair and clothes were rumpled, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A walk, she thought, would do them both good.

“I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” she suggested. “Maybe start with the positives. Tom made a student cry today.”

“These aren’t manuscripts,” Eric said finally. “It’s a business plan. Projected expenses, projected income.” He lowered his voice. “We’re in the red, Marianne.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” she said. “I did the math too, and—”

“The repairs, the permits. Insurance.” He went back to paging through the document. “Frances’s endowment is spent.”

“I thought we had new … funders? Investors? Can’t we send the bills to them?”