"The pilot's family hired some hotshot attorney, a Mike Rempe out of West Palm. Talk about a piranha. The guy's already filed a wrongful death lawsuit against you and FAU. As far as the University's concerned, you're unmarketable, pal. Poison."

"A lawsuit? But it was an accident."

"Save it for the deposition. Anyway, the dean and I think it's best we sort of sever all ties with you, at least for now."

I was incredulous. "FAU's blaming me? David, what did you tell them?"

"Look, you did open that escape hatch."

"Yes, schmuck, to escape!"

"And by doing so, you may have put too much strain on the tow cable."

"You son of a bitch… you told them I flooded the sub!"

"No… I… I mean, look, maybe you'd better get an attorney."

"No way, David, no flicking way! I won't play the fall guy for you or FAU, you can forget it. The sub's bubble cracked, that's what killed the pilot."

"Hey, I'm just the messenger, and the message is you're no longer associated with the university. It's a visibility thing, nothing personal."

"Yeah, well, fuck you, nothing personal."

It was all I could do to keep from strangling him with one of my IVs.

* * *

The hospital released me two days later, only after I signed a paper agreeing to keep an appointment with a psychiatrist. Apparently, my doctors feared depression setting in.

They were right to worry.

I took a cab to my on-campus apartment, a perk FAU had used in recruiting me. Demonstrating uncharacteristic efficiency, David had already struck, ordering the university's housing authority to pack my possessions into cardboard boxes. Under the watchful eye of a security officer (what was I going to do, steal my own belongings?) I tossed everything into the back of my Jeep. Then, with nowhere else to go, I headed for my mother's place in Bal Harbour.

* * *

Upon returning to America with her nine-year-old son, the former Mrs. Angus Wallace had struggled for several years to earn a living as a travel agent before meeting her future husband, Mr. Charlie Mason of Long Island, New York. Charlie was a writer, spending his days penning columns for soap opera magazines, his nights pounding out screenplays. His breakthrough as a scribe came six months after marrying my mother, when a friend of hers enticed a prominent Hollywood agent to read one of his scripts, a comedy about a man trying to kill his legally wed homosexual partner so he could collect on a lottery ticket. The sale netted six figures and reaped a nice payday at the box office, and suddenly Charlie and his new bride were moving up in the world.

I liked my stepfather. He was a slight man with thinning hair, fifteen years older than my mother, but he loved her dearly and treated her with respect, and that's all that mattered in my book.