The memory was of the Madison winter skyline receding in his rearview mirror, seen from across a frozen Lake Monona, heading out of town on John Nolen Drive. He was leaving, pretending to know what he was doing. The unreal morning light stroked the smoothed throat of late November. Everything was a.m. poetry, everything was snowy math. Events let themselves off, unmoored and floated up, weightless—two possible worlds hovered before him like spheres. Kierk wanted to throw it all away just to see what would happen, to see if it would free him, allow a movement to greater heights. Some voice whispered: further, further and faster. He was sick of this cold, he could go somewhere warm. Simultaneously he knew that nothing would happen, he would dissolve into himself, his own personality turning self-cannibalistic in the manner of the consumptive. It’s too late to make any improvements, Kierk had thought, the universe has been finished for a long time now, it’s wrapped up, all that’s left to do is the casting. You, you’re the cowboy. You, the Roman soldier. You, the geisha. You, the failed scientist. Action.

Outside the lecture hall Kierk sits with his knees up to his chest listening to the familiar voice of his mentor echo out from within. Occasionally Kierk shakes his head, or laughs darkly to himself as he catches the old phrases and terms, some of which he had invented himself. Inside he knows is the entirety of NYU’s CNS faculty, a huge number of students, many of them crouched in the aisles and standing along the walls, and of course all the Crick Scholars except himself. Finally, there’s the rising of applause that goes on for a long time. Then low murmuring as Antonio responds to a few questions that Kierk can’t hear. The audience members come streaming out, discussing in excited voices, gesturing with their arms. Kierk sneaks away to the nearest restroom to wait for the crowds to pass, determined not to be seen. After washing his face and hands he goes back out into the hallway, having avoided most of the foot traffic. He can hear Antonio still packing up inside, the sound of someone saying goodbye to him, the unzipping of a laptop case. Kierk considers—he could just walk away right now. He doesn’t have to see Moretti, doesn’t have to talk to him. On the other hand, they hadn’t spoken since Kierk had left, hadn’t corresponded since Kierk had published a paper arguing against their former work. And here was Antonio, nine months later, still giving the same spiel that Kierk had helped develop. Kierk hangs between walking away and confrontation, the two possibilities flipping back and forth, a thing that could only be examined from one side at a time, reality itself, and then Kierk makes his choice and opens the heavy lecture-hall doors.