Unfortunately so was her boyfriend, Gary Holloway—why, the name alone! It sounded like the name of a used-car salesman, and he acted like one, offering what he seemed to think was a charming smile and smooth remarks, and little else by way of compensation for living in Allison’s room. Gary Holloway was always there. Was he even a student? What did he do except screw Allison? Which he did a lot. The wooden floors were squeaky at the house on 39th Street, which meant Ted heard everything that happened upstairs. This was a torment the first few months—but it gave him the advantage the night Gary Holloway dumped Allison after a loud and ugly fight. Ted suffered through several hours of her unrelenting sobs before he knocked on Allison’s door, opting to console his pretty housemate over getting the sleep he needed for a history test. He’d failed the test, but he’d gotten the girl. He still couldn’t believe it. It was a feat worthy of his fictional brother, Thomas—a third, more confident Miller sibling whom he and his twin, Terrance, had invented as children. Thomas was the charismatic one, the success. Thomas was the brother with balls.

What would Thomas do? he and Terrance sometimes asked each other, still. He asked himself the question now.

Thomas wouldn’t put up with Nick Cox’s wanton destruction of Willard Park. He would have seen to it that the White Elephant was never built. At four stories, Nick Cox’s latest abomination rose high above all the other houses in Willard Park, casting a shadow over the Millers’ home. It was painted bright white and had been sitting on the market for months—hence the nickname, which Ted had come up with himself. It had caught on, he’d been pleased to learn, but that was the only thing about it that pleased him. Ted threw the paper clip, his mood having slipped from brown to black. It pinged off the door frame and landed with a tap on the floor. The tower bell gonged the half hour. Eleven thirty. Close enough. He took the stairs two at a time.

Ted unlocked his bicycle, donned his yellow helmet and vest, and rode through the iron campus gate, bumping down the cobblestone street. He picked up two cans of soda and a package of Oreos from the convenience store, continuing down the block to the nursing home.

Ted kept his head low as he walked by the nursing home supervisor’s office—Dana had left three messages on his phone this week, none of which Ted had returned. He nodded at the gray heads in wheelchairs or standing, propped up by walkers, in the fluorescent-lit halls and common areas. It was nearly time for lunch and the steamy, overboiled string bean smell rose over the tang of ammonia.