“Why did you send me that video?” asked Trevor.

“What video? I didn’t send any video.” Chad’s grin was egregious.

“I know it was you. Claudia knows it was you.”

“Whatever. Claudia Castro’s a fucking liar.”

“You’re a rapist.”

“Oh, please.”

“She was drunk.”

“She didn’t say no.”

Trevor hit him, fist to face, and Chad stumbled back, fell onto the green carpet beneath the green awning that announced The Park View. Two doormen in green coats and hats came running. The tall one grabbed Trevor by the arms while the other knelt next to Chad, who jumped up, ran toward Trevor, and punched him in the stomach. Trevor’s knees buckled and the tall doorman let go. Chad stepped back and kicked him in the face. Trevor tasted blood and kept his head down. He’d made a mistake coming here. He wasn’t helping anybody. He needed to get home.

“If Claudia Castro doesn’t want people to know she’s a slut, she should stop being one,” said Chad. The balding doorman tried to take Chad’s arm but he shook him off. “I’m fine.”

Trevor was still on hands and knees on the green carpet. Maybe he’d sink into the sidewalk.

“Call the police,” said Chad. “I want to press charges.”

“Mr. Drake,” began the balding doorman.

“What did I just say? Call. The. Police.”

“Your father…”

“My father what? Oh Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll do it.” Chad rubbed his jaw and pulled his phone from his back pocket.

Trevor stood up. Breathing hurt. Where was he? People were starting to gather around the green carpet: two women in yoga pants; another talking into her earbuds, pushing a double stroller. He was a long way from his dorm. Was there a subway nearby? He looked to the street. A taxi. All he needed to do was raise his arm. He started to walk, but Chad began shouting and the tall doorman grabbed his wrist.

“I’ve gotta go,” Trevor said.

The doorman did not release his grip. His green cap had fallen off.

Should he run? The crowd seemed to have tripled in size, and then there was a police officer. Trevor let himself be walked into the building and down an ornately carved, wood-paneled hallway, his sneakers soft on the oriental rugs that lined the floor like dominos laid end-to-end. He sat where the wide-chested cop told him to sit, in a little room that appeared to be a sorting facility for packages. After a minute, a second officer, a woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, arrived, and Chad started talking.

“He followed me home and attacked me.”

The officers listened and made notes and asked the doormen to describe what they’d seen.