“Oh, shit.” He hurries backward so quickly he nearly falls down the steps. Already he can smell the skunky pungency of the spray, and he dives onto the lawn and sprints down the sidewalk as the woman cries after him, “You’re no professor!”

He’s too exhausted and jacked up on adrenaline to make good choices, but that doesn’t stop him. He takes his time circling the block and then returns to the house and sneaks up the steps and hits the buzzer again. The air still has a funk to it from the pepper spray and he tries not to breathe, not wanting to set off his cough. It’s then he notices that Darla’s door isn’t fully latched, and when he gives it a nudge, it swings open with a whine.

He pops inside and closes the door as softly as he can. He walks along the edge of the staircase, where the wood is the least warped, trying to keep it from creaking. The rain drums outside. Gray light seeps through a window on the landing. Shoes jumble the floor here. Flats and sandals and sneakers and the mud-caked set of hiking boots she was wearing when he saw her last. Some dizziness bothers him so he grabs the railing, worried for a second that he might faint. Whispers tease his ears and again he looks around for a hidden speaker.

Another door waits for him, this one locked. But through a leaded-glass window he can see into the apartment’s living room. The furniture is the standard mismatched assortment you see in every academic’s home: Ikea mixed with antiques captured from garage sales and thrift shops. Books fill shelves, and a bird-identification poster hangs on the wall. The couch is nested with blankets and the TV is on but muted. He gives the door a soft rap with his knuckles. Then knocks again, louder this time. Then he thumbs on the cellular service for his phone once more. When he calls her, he spots her own cell buzzing on the coffee table. The TV throws its changing light across the room and makes everything uncertain. He knocks again and then rattles the locked knob. “Darla?” he says. “It’s me. It’s Jack.”

He hears a high-pitched whimper, what sounds to him like someone in pain. “Darla?” The lock holds when he twists hard, but there’s no dead bolt and the door is old enough that it takes only a nudge of his shoulder to crack through.

“Darla?” he says. “Hey!” Shouting makes him cough so hard his ears buzz. “Anybody? Darla?”