That reminds him. He should follow up with Darla. After he stumbles out of the shower and towels his body dry, leaning against the sink to rest for a moment, he fetches his cell phone. He dials her number and listens to the line ring as he walks around his bedroom picking clothes off the floor and smelling them for freshness. The walls are bare, but the carpet is obscured by heaps of dirty laundry. Not for the first time, he thinks he should do something about this—hang some pictures, dust and vacuum, at least try to perform the part of a civilized grown-up. By the time he decides on a shirt and a pair of pants, Darla still hasn’t answered and the call goes to voice mail. “Hey,” he says. “Just checking in to make sure you’re okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’ve . . . got a question for you. About the fungal consult at the tree farm? So, yeah, hit me back when you can. E-mail or text is fine.”

As soon as he ends the call, his phone buzzes in his hand and he nearly drops it. The number comes from the university and he answers by saying, “Darla?”

A rough male voice calls out, “With you guys, I swear. Half the time I don’t know what to clean up and what not to clean up.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“You professors—you’re always leaving your crap lying around like a bunch of spoiled-ass kids, and then I get into trouble when I clean it up. People whining about experiments and the like. Well, I don’t know. How am I supposed to know what the hell’s an experiment and what’s just a damn mess?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Earl in Custodial, and I’m calling because I just walked into your lab. And I don’t know what to tell you, but I’m not cleaning whatever that is up. Do it yourself. Understand?”

“I—” But before Jack can ask him anything else, the caller hangs up.