The address Claudia had given was closer to University than Fifth Avenue, so Trevor lingered under an awning near the gate there. He’d been through this little alley once or twice before. The houses along the cobblestone street—were they houses or offices?—seemed as if they belonged in a storybook, with window boxes full of flowers and heavy iron doorknockers. Quaint rectangular buildings, two floors, four windows; some red, some yellow, some white. It felt like a movie set, and in this movie the hero and the villain were clear. What Trevor was about to do to Jeremy was just the logical final scene: comeuppance. The thought settled his nerves just as he spotted Jeremy coming toward him on University. Trevor slid the bat out of the duffle and held it beside his leg as Jeremy turned into the Mews. This was going to be easy. He ran forward, raised the bat, and swung. Jeremy fell onto his knees, then collapsed, rolling off the curb and into the gutter. Trevor looked up and saw a woman rounding the block from Fifth. Jeremy groaned quietly, but didn’t move. Had the woman seen? Was she on her phone? Jeremy’s headphones were lying in a puddle beside his phone. The woman was getting nearer. He grabbed the phone and ran, jogging two blocks to the edge of Washington Square Park with the bat still in his hand. He heard no shouting, no footsteps. The sidewalk was crowded with people passing, but no one paid him any attention. An athlete late for practice. Trevor spotted a bench and sat down, further soaking his pants. He put the bat in the duffle and shoved it underneath with his feet. No sirens, no second looks, just his heart like a firecracker knocking against his ribs. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then another. He forced himself to think. He had to ditch the bat. Trevor stood abruptly, started walking, then stopped short and ran back for the duffle. He was going to make a mistake soon. Get out of the park. He walked toward the library; it was in the opposite direction from his dorm, but also from the alley. Half the street was closed due to construction; cars honked in the wet, their headlights lurching at his legs. At the corner of West Fourth, water flowed into an open storm drain. He slid the bat from the bag and dropped it and the phone down, watching a moment to make sure they disappeared. He continued east, thinking he’d take the long way home. The empty bag he shed a few blocks south, into one of several dumpsters outside Kmart. The gloves went into a trash can along Broadway, and the hat into another on Fourteenth Street. His ID was in his back pocket and he swiped in through the turnstiles inside the dorm. Almost everyone waiting for the elevators up was soaking wet, too. No one said a word.