One girl was standing in the middle of the bar yelling into her cell phone at a long-distance boyfriend who was supposed to have done something he did not do. Two people from his hall danced until they got sick and puked on the curb outside. A boy he’d gone to high school with thought it was hilarious to flip up a girl’s skirt, and Truman’s stomach lurched with uncertainty. He started to make his way toward the girl to see if she was okay when she turned around and punched the guy in the face, splitting his lip, spilling his beer, and getting them all thrown out of the bar.

That punch turned out to be the high point of the night, and Truman peeled off, making his way back toward campus. He’d had only the vaguest sense of where his dorm was, so he’d let his GPS guide him. When he saw the cemetery to his left on the map, he’d veered toward it and found himself in the dark quiet of the Garden District.

It was such a relief to be away from the din and chaos of the Quarter that Truman hardly cared the gates to Lafayette No. 1 were shut for the night. He skirted its perimeter, appreciating the snatches of music issuing from the open windows of the handsome houses that bordered its walls. He stood on a jutting stone and peeked inside. The darkness was impenetrable a few steps in, but he could make out the ornate tombs just on the other side of the wall.

He contemplated hoisting himself over but decided that getting arrested for trespassing (to say nothing of being haunted) on his first night away from home was not ideal, so he just dropped a pin in his GPS and promised himself he’d come back the next day.

He had, and it was even more beautiful than he’d imagined in the dark. It had become a retreat for him when he needed to get off campus, get away from the stresses of class or the demands of friends. And it had stayed that way until the other afternoon.

The peaceful beauty of Lafayette No. 1 was now enmeshed with the memory of peering through Guy’s window and seeing the life his boyfriend actually lived.

“Ugh,” Truman groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

Ash pulled the envelope off the front door of Thorn and unlocked it, holding it open for Truman. Bruce, apparently thinking the polite gesture was for him, entered at the same time, almost wedging himself and Truman in the doorframe.

“Bruce, you silly thing,” Ash muttered, pulling his leash.

Truman smiled. “My dog is even bigger than Bruce,” he reassured Ash. “So I’m used to it.”

“Yeah? Got a picture?”

“I might have one or two,” Truman said breezily, then grinned and thumbed open his phone, which contained 2,786 photos, surely 2,458 of which at least were of Horse.