Chapter Text
Saps has a horrible habit of forgetting to turn his alarm off. Flux wakes up to its monotonous tune — the same four notes, repeated over and over — and fumbles for his phone. It’s still dark outside. He squints, realizes that his phone isn’t the one with the alarm, then falls back into bed. Light comes from underneath the door. Saps has got conditioning, Flux remembers, still half-asleep. That’s why it’s dark outside and why the alarm won’t shut off and why his own phone reads five in the morning.
The dormitory door opens. Light floods in from the hallway. “Shit,” Saps whispers, and he rushes to turn his alarm off. “Shit, sorry.”
Flux is too tired to do much more than blink at him from the other side of the room. Saps winces, then mouths sorry, as if that’s going to do any good. He’s already awake.
Saps checks the time, then turns and rummages through his laundry basket. He uses his phone flashlight to search through all the piles of clothes; it’s so bright that Flux gives up on trying to fall back asleep, pushes himself up. His voice comes out sleep-hoarse and rusty. “Have you considered wearing clean clothes?”
Saps looks back, grins. “Does this mean I can turn the light on?”
“You asshole,” Flux says. “Whatever. Fine.”
Saps flicks the light on, and Flux squints. He wants to pull his covers right back over his face. Awful fluorescent lighting illuminates their shitty college dormitory in full glory: two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, two desks, two dressers. Saps has all-white sheets and an all-white duvet and all-white pillowcases, all of which are thrown back and rumpled. He’s still fishing around in there, looking more and more irritated, before he says aloud, “Do you have my hoodie?”
“What?”
“My track hoodie. The one that says my — ugh, nevermind.”
Flux knows exactly where that hoodie is and smartly says nothing. “Maybe you should do your laundry.”
“I don’t have time for that, I’ve got to be at the rec center in half an hour.”
“You know, maybe if you didn’t wake your roommate up every morning at an ungodly hour —”
“I said I was sorry!”
“— maybe all of your hoodies would stop going missing.”
Saps pauses. “You’re such a thief. Why do you always take my shit?”
“I don’t want to do my laundry,” says Flux, burrowing back into the covers. “It’s quicker and easier to make you do it for me.”
But Saps only laughs, now turning to dig through Fluixon’s closet, where he has each and every shirt hanging neatly on a wooden hanger. Saps surfaces with Flux’s old high school jumper — from his first high school, before Crow had forced him to transfer — and yanks it over his head. It’s slightly too small, as most of Fluixon’s clothes are on him.
“I want that back,” Flux says, without any threat in his voice.
“Yeah, yeah. You return my hoodie and I’ll give you yours back too.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Flux lies.
Saps’ nose curls up. He doesn’t have to say you liar for Flux to know what he’s thinking. He kneels to the ground to lace up his shoes. As he does so, he says, “Do you have plans tonight?”
“It’s five in the morning.”
“I know. What I mean is, can you pick me up in case I get too drunk tonight?”
Flux frowns. “I thought you weren’t going out.”
“I wasn’t going to! But Jophiel has set me up with that stupid blind date, and she thinks I don’t know it’s Turntapp, but I do. And I know Turntapp, I know he’s going to want to meet me at a bar, and I don’t want to look stupid and get drunk and…” Saps trails off. He makes an incoherent groan, then turns towards Flux despairingly. “I need a ride. Just in case.”
Flux has forgotten entirely about Jophiel’s mission to find Saparata true love. He tries not to let the irritation show, but some of it must peek through, because Saps’ face falls.
“I can drive,” Flux mutters. Then he actually does pull the covers up to his face and buries himself in them. “Now turn the light off. It’s too bright.”
Saps grins, as he always does. Relief looks sweet on him. “Of course, your highness. I’ll owe you one.”
Then the light is off, pitch-black again, and the door is swinging shut behind Saps. Flux can hear his footsteps down the hallway; can hear the door to the staircase swing open, and that’s when all sounds vanish. He waits a couple of seconds — now, Saps is probably jogging down the stairs, all eight stories down. In a minute he’ll burst out into the early-morning cold of their college campus and run the ten minutes all the way to the rec center. Indoor track season is the worst; it swallows up all of Saps’ time, and Flux almost never sees him in the spring semester. He gets the early mornings with him, sometimes, but more often than not Saps leaves without waking him up. He gets the evenings, on occasion, when Saps isn’t fighting to keep up with his rapidly-slipping grades. Add in junior class presidency requirements, and Fluixon’s own hectic schedule with Latin Club and the Modern Democracy study group, and they might as well live on opposite sides of the world.
Flux rolls over to look out of the window. There Saps goes, eight floors down: gray sweatpants and Flux’s purple sweatshirt and his stupid hair tied up. He jogs in place for a minute, pressing little buttons on his smartwatch. Tracking whatever absurd macros he’s obsessed with tracking now. Flux watches him and tries not to feel like a voyeur. Then Saps takes off down the sidewalk, and Flux watches until his little figure vanishes behind the freshman dorms.
It’s too early for this. But he can’t quite fall back asleep.
Flux claims a table all for himself at the dining hall that morning. He’s in the back by the windows, just enough space to sprawl out his notes and begin flicking through them. Intermediate Latin has a quiz that afternoon. After that, he’s supposed to meet Schpood to work on their Roman Civilization presentation — ugh. Schpood. Their last study session had been disastrous. Flux pokes two fingers to his temple and tries to get rid of the dawning headache.
Thomas approaches the table. “Did you hear? Saps and Turntapp?”
“Good morning to you too,” Flux says sourly. Thomas takes a seat beside him — the seat that Flux always leaves open — and hands over his notes from yesterday’s Modern Democracy course. Flux had emailed to say he was sick; really, he’d just woken up late and hadn’t felt like sitting around a table, Socratic Seminar style, running on fumes. He’d spent the whole afternoon in bed staring listlessly out the window. Saps had been out, doing something, and Flux didn’t want to speak to anyone but him.
Thomas looks at him. “I’m bringing you notes. You could at least say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Flux says stiffly. He tries not to be terse and fails. “Saps woke me up at five this morning. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“We should kill him.”
“Agreed.”
“Maybe Turntapp will do the job for us.”
“No, Turntapp will just get him drunk.”
“Consider, though, a drunk Saparata…”
“I don’t have to consider it. He asked me to pick him up tonight.”
Thomas blinks. “You’re kidding. Can I tag along?”
“Sure. I love embarrassing Saps. Let’s get Snowbird and Gotoga in it too.”
“Jophiel has totally lost her mind,” Thomas says, shaking his head. He laughs, almost to himself, then says, “Speaking of Snowbird — I promised I’d meet with him this morning to go over Campus Senate stuff before our meeting on Monday. 3Below and Legacy have apparently heard some news about Westhelm and a party license, or something like that. I’m not sure. Are you good studying without me?”
Bemused, Flux says, “I generally study better on my own.”
“Great.” Thomas is not really listening to him. “Also, can I see your essay for Modern Democracy?”
“No. You’re not cheating off me again.”
Thomas shrugs. “Whatever you say.” Then he takes a bite out of Flux’s bagel, drinks a sip of Flux’s coffee, and winces at the taste. “Nasty. I don’t know how you drink that stuff black. See you later.”
Flux stares down at his plain bagel with butter, now missing one bite, and at the notes. He checks Life360; Saps is still at the rec center. He’s probably just finished conditioning; it’s barely eight in the morning. Or maybe he’s still running on the treadmill. He’s working his way up to a full marathon, Flux knows. Over winter break he hung out with Saps at his childhood home and watched him run around his old high school track for an hour and a half. Saps, when running, kept his eyes focused on the horizon line. It was as if Flux wasn’t even there. He only tuned back into reality when he finished the last thirteenth mile, slowed, braced his hands on his knees, and said, time?
Hour thirty, said Flux.
Saps grinned. He was sweating and shining in the cool winter sunlight. It was one of those rare cold days in Arizona. He yanked off his sweatshirt, collapsed onto the red track floor. Damn. Not bad.
Flux stared at him for a long second. Sweat plastered baby hairs to his forehead. He had his eyes closed, mouth parted. He was all leg, which made him look terribly unbalanced. He was incredibly attractive. Flux averted his eyes and jabbed him in the side with the toe of his sneaker. Inside, he said. I’m going to freeze out here.
Saps’ little dot starts to move. He’s leaving the rec center. Flux chokes down the last of his black coffee — it is battery acid, Thomas is right — and shoves his notes into his backpack. If he times it right, he’ll run into Saps right as he enters the dining hall.
And he does time it perfectly. He just fails to account for the Turntapp variable.
Flux stops short when he sees the two of them together. Turntapp is chatting up Saps, who’s leaning back against the dining hall doors. There’s an easy grin on his face.
“Flux,” Saps grins, catching him out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry about this morning. Good luck on your quiz.”
“Oh, hey, Flux,” Turntapp says. He gives him a little salute.
Flux keeps his eyes on the ground when he passes them.
Flux isn’t sure when he had first fallen in love with Saparata. It definitely wasn’t freshman year — he had despised the guy then. Saps was a student athlete and called everyone else a NARP, and by law, Flux despised anyone who used the word NARP unironically. He’d stuck by the only other normal person in his orientation group — Thomas, a political science major minoring in Classics, who was the perfect balance to Fluixon, a Classics major minoring in political science — and tried to ignore Saparata and the rest of the athletes. But Saps was hard to ignore. He cornered Flux and asked for his number, the very last day of orientation week, and Flux was too shocked to say no. And then Saps took his schedule right out of his hand and said oh, cool, we’re in the same intro English course!
They’d sat right next to each other the whole semester. It was a terrible class. Flux tried vainly to pay attention to discussions of Dante’s Inferno and Marlow’s Doctor Faustus while Saps doodled all over his notebook. And then, without fail, he’d catch Flux by the arm after class and say can I have your notes?
Flux grit his teeth, but every time, he obligingly opened his notebook and let Saps take photos of the neatly-cramped cursive.
So maybe it was then: when Flux started to realize he was bending over backwards for a guy he didn’t even like. Or it could have been Halloweekend that same semester — that horrible beer funnel at the Westhelm party. It still makes him shudder to think of that night. Or it could have been the spring semester, final’s week, when Saps cornered him in the library basement and said, “You’re not seriously rooming with Thomas next year.”
“I like Thomas,” Flux had said, unconcerned. He shelved one book, then turned down the hallway. Stupid students leaving their books all over the desks. They were only making it harder for guys like Flux, who actually worked at the library, and had to scurry like little ants all over the stacks re-shelving books. “Thomas is nice to me. Thomas actually comes to my study sessions.”
“I said I was sorry about that! Are you seriously going to hold it over my head forever?”
“Until it stops working on you, yes.”
“Oh.” Saps paused briefly. Then he hurried after Flux. “Listen, Jophiel told me she’s dorming with Sera, and Kanukei wants a single, and Benji said he’s living off campus, and — and I can’t afford that!”
“Poor you.”
“Okay, dude, you really can’t say that when I talk about being broke. Not cool.”
Flux paused then. Sometimes he forgot who his dad was. More specifically, he forgot that not everyone had a media conglomerate CEO as their sort-of questionably-estranged father. “Alright. I take it back. Sorry.”
“I need a roommate,” Saps said. He turned the puppy-dog eyes way up. “Please?”
The truth was, Flux wasn’t rooming with Thomas. He wanted a single. And he had already secured a single in a very nice residence hall for all of sophomore year next semester. Thomas, Snowbird, and Gotoga were in a suite together, somewhere way on the south side of campus.
He shelved the last book in his pile and stared hard through the shelves. “Sure. I’ll be your roommate.”
Saps let out a very undignified yippee! Then he grabbed both of Flux’s hands in his, grinning like an idiot, and said, “You won’t regret this!”
Flux immediately regretted his decision. But right on the heels of that regret was a sort of embarrassed, flattered flush that spread like lava through his chest. His hands felt oddly hot. He swallowed hard and tried not to feel immensely pleased.
In hindsight, it’s probably then — that late spring afternoon in the depths of the library — when he had first fallen in love. But Flux didn’t realize he was in love until way, way later.
Schpood meets him on the third floor of the library, where all the Loeb classics are lined up in red and green on the shelves. Flux never knows what to expect entering this study room. There’s always some chaos going on with Westhelm. On their very first study session, Schpood had left early, claiming that admin were about to shut all parties down. Clearly, no parties have been shut down. Today, he has Spyder with him and they’ve got some sort of color-coded chart spread across the table. Both of their backpacks are in the seat where Flux is supposed to sit.
“Seriously?” Flux says. “You knew I was going to be here.”
Schpood does not even acknowledge his existence. He and Spyder have their heads bent together and they’re discussing amounts of alcohol in very low, serious voices. The debate between Absolut and Smirnoff is serious, Flux realizes. He drags up a chair from another table, sits down, and watches them talk. They still don’t seem to realize he’s there.
“No, dude, five packs of Coors.”
“Coors is expensive. They can deal with Natty Light, like actually. Just because you like Coors doesn’t mean we have to get it. Just send Bardun in with the list from last time and —”
“Okay, fuck no, the last time we sent Bardun out with a list he came back with a bag of limes and a bunch of THC cans. I’m going myself.”
“But I need you to take the car and pick up the other keg —”
“Hello,” Flux says again, clearing his throat. “I am here.”
At last, Schpood turns in his direction. His face falls when he sees Flux standing there. Spyder sighs and folds up the color-coded chart into a tiny square, then sticks it into his back pocket. He turns to Schpood and says “Later, dude.” They perform an absurdly complex handshake that involves multiple chest bumps.
“You told me three PM,” Flux says, fighting to keep his voice even. There are a lot of people he can afford to piss off at this godforsaken college, but Schpood is on the very short list of people he can’t afford to piss off — not unless he wants to get himself and the entirety of Latin Club blacklisted from every Westhelm frat party from now until the end of time. “I was here on time, you know.”
“Ughhhh,” Schpood groans. He puts his head in his hands. “Let’s just get this over with.”
That is… okay, sure. Flux doesn’t even bother to respond. He just takes out his notebook and computer and opens up his slideshow. Schpood watches him carefully, eyes narrowed, until he says at last, “Hey, I heard Saps is going out with someone.”
“Really?” Flux says coolly. “I didn’t know.”
Schpood waggles an eyebrow and grins that classic Schpood grin. “And it’s not you.”
Flux doesn’t deign to respond. He pulls up Google Slides — he has already put together the entire slideshow for them. Augustus’ imperial face stares out coldly from his marble statue. He turns his computer towards Schpood and says, “Look these over for me.”
“Wait, I don’t even get edit access?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“This is why Saps won’t ever date you,” Schpood advises, flicking through the slides. “You’re so distrusting. Saps needs a — a guy like Turntapp who can get him absolutely fucking blasted and not make him feel like shit about it.” He turns the computer back towards Flux. “These look great. Hey, do you think you can get Saps to spy on the Covenant during intramurals for us?”
Stung, Flux says, “You should ask him yourself. Also, I thought this was supposed to be a blind date. How does everyone know who Saps is going out with tonight?”
“Because Cass is a gossip and she somehow knows everything,” Schpood informs him. “And I would ask him if I could! But it’s bad ethics for me to ask. It’s got to come from someone else so that he doesn’t realize he’s spying for us. Besides, that guy is so committed to winning the senior class presidency next year that he doesn’t say anything other than I’m a mediator, Schpood!” Schpood puts his head all the way down on the table and lets out an even louder groan.
Because it’s the only way to get Schpood to stop pushing at his buttons, Flux says, “I’ll text him.”
“Thank god,” Schpood says. He pulls out his phone and then scowls. “Goddamnit, not this again!” It’s Skipolo; Schpood puts their conversation on speaker phone. There’s a darty at the Westhelm frat house, apparently. Distant sounds of ping pong balls echo down the line as Schpood and Skipolo argue with each other.
“Cool,” Flux says to himself. He gives up entirely on finishing this stupid presentation with Schpood and just gets started packing all his things up. This is how the last study session ended, with Flux saying he’ll just do the group project himself. Knowing him, it’ll be much better that way.
That night, Flux yanks out Saps’ hoodie from where he’s hidden it — underneath all his neatly-folded pants in the bottom drawer of his dresser — and tugs it over his head. It smells like Saps’ stupid pine soap and aftershave. At some point the scent is going to fade, and then Flux will have to give the hoodie back so that Saps can get all his gross pheromones and sweat all over it again. And then Flux will steal it back, and they’ll be stuck in this quasi-homoerotic pattern until the rest of time. Because Saps will just keep going on whatever blind dates Jophiel sets him up with, dating his way through the entire junior class, and Flux will just be here. Laying on his bed. Listening to the loudest, most aggressive yearning music he can manage. Trying to ignore the Latin Club groupchat blowing up his phone. Wanting something he’s never going to get, because Schpood is right: he’s too distrusting to ever deserve someone like Saps.
His phone pings. It’s the duck sound he’s set up for Saps. pleasee pick me upppppp, Saps has said. He’s also dropped a pin to his location, not that Flux needs it. im sooo drunk akdn turntapp sucks and he wants ot go to a second lcotaionnnnn.
Flux yanks his boots on — the nice black stomping ones that Cynikka got him for his birthday last year. He calls Thomas on his way down the stairs and tells him he’s got five minutes to meet Flux in front of the bookstore if he wants to see Saps embarrass himself while drunk. True to his word, by the time Flux has got the Porsche up and running, Thomas is waiting outside the bookstore’s front doors with Gotoga and Snowbird in tow.
“Dude,” Gotoga says, “Really?”
Flux looks down and grits his teeth. He forgot he was wearing Saps’ stupid hoodie. “Just get in.”
They pile in the back. Snowbird is on aux; Gotoga’s in the middle seat and complaining about it, pushing against Thomas playfully. Flux keeps his eyes on the road and wishes that he had remembered to change out of Saps’ clothes before going to pick him up from his blind date. Well, his blind date that everyone seems to already know about.
Flux pulls to a stop in the middle of the street and puts his hazards on. A car honks and swerves out of the way; whatever. It wouldn’t be the first car Flux has totaled. He stares at the cracked windows of Ted’s, then checks his phone. There’s a dozen more messages from Saps and all of them are more embarrassing and drunk than the last.
“Oh my god,” Snowbird groans, “He’s around the corner. Look. He’s wearing that ugly jacket again.”
That stupid jacket is the faux-leather, all-white jacket that Saps’ uncle — well, adopted uncle — got last year for Christmas. It’s hideously tacky and everyone makes fun of him for it behind his back; Saps doesn’t know this, because Flux lies to his face and tells him it looks good. Now he’s half-behind the brick walls of Ted’s, and Turntapp is standing right next to him. They’re sharing a cigarette, and Saps’ face is flushed and red all over. And Flux watches as Turntapp throws the cigarette onto the ground, grinds it into his heel, and kisses Saps up against the wall in that way horrible frat guys always kiss people who are slightly taller than them, like it’s an ego thing.
“Ew,” Thomas says.
“He’s insane,” Snowbird says. “Is anyone getting this on video?”
Flux rolls down his window and slams forward on the horn. Everyone flinches, especially Saps, who nearly hits his head into the wall. He wipes at his mouth and stares foggily at the street, eyes bleary and drunk.
Flux leans out of the window and says, “Your ride?”
Saps’ whole face lights up when he sees him. Turntapp raises a middle finger, hot with embarrassment, and Flux stares him down coldly, employing the classic Aculon stare. After a second, Turntapp looks away. He scowls something to himself and goes to head back inside. Saps doesn’t bother looking before sprinting across the street, hauling himself into the passenger seat.
“You’re here!” Then he stops, looks at what Flux is wearing. “Is that mine?”
“There’s water in the car door,” Flux says, trying to tamp down the jealousy in his chest. “Put your seatbelt on.”
“Oh,” Saps realizes, looking behind him. “You’re all here.”
Thomas grins. “You made out with Turntapp?”
“In my defense —”
“You have such low standards,” Snowbird says. “It’s really hard to look at you sometimes.”
“Noooo,” Saps says, slouching down in his seat. The seatbelt digs into his neck. “I’m too drunk for this.”
“Too bad.” Gotoga reaches over and pokes him. “And Ted’s? Of all places?”
“Saparata has low standards,” Flux says, turning left a little too aggressively.
“It’s Jophiel’s fault,” Saps whines. “She set me up!”
“Yeah, you could have said no. You could have said literally anything! But you chose to go out with Turntapp!”
It’s not a fun night for Saps. He slouches lower, puts a hand over his eyes, and only makes small little noises when someone says something a little too insulting about his jacket. At last, Flux pulls to a stop in front of the bookstore. “Out,” he says curtly. Maybe too curtly, because Thomas gives him a rather curious look. But the three of them don’t argue; they just file out, still laughing, and they’re giggling in the background when Flux pulls away from the curb.
“Mean,” Saps says. It’s almost a pout. “I thought it was just you.”
Flux starts the slow loop around to the north parking lot. “Tough luck.”
Saps is watching him carefully. “Are you mad?”
“No,” Flux lies.
“Yes, you are. You’re mad at me. I hate it when you’re mad at me. What happened? What did I do?”
“I’m not mad,” Flux says, this time hiding the lie a little better. “I am… concerned for your wellbeing.”
“Is this about the kiss? Listen, it really wasn’t that big a deal. Plus we did like, way worse inside.”
“I really did not need to know that.”
“Shit.” Saps squeezes his eyes shut. “I need to never drink again. Never, ever, ever.”
Flux pulls into his parking spot. He paid a good amount of money to reserve this spot just for him: the best parking lot, closest to all the dorms, right by the walkway leading to their building. It even has a little RESERVED sign in front. He shuts the car off and turns to look at Saps, who is still flushed all over and breathing quickly.
“I don’t like Turntapp,” Flux says at last. “But it’s not my decision who you choose to date.”
Saps gets out of the car. He wavers a lot. He’s drunker than he lets on. He holds onto Flux’s arm as he stumbles down the walkway, and it takes him two tries to hit the right button on the elevator. They stop at the 5th floor and at the 7th floor. Seraphim is in the hallway, chatting with Cass on the 7th floor. She looks curiously at him, then waves. Flux grimaces and waves back.
“Wrong floor?” Cass guesses.
“His fault.” Flux points towards Saps. “He likes to press buttons when drunk.”
Sera raises an eyebrow. “Turntapp, Saps? Really?”
“I am going to kill Jophiel,” Saps says suddenly, and then the elevator doors slide shut. They rise one floor up to the eighth floor. The sign outside their dorm says FLUXARATA in nice white-and-purple. Thomas made it for them as a joke, and Saps was too attached to throw it away. It’s been outside their dorm for a year and a half now, and unfortunately, Flux has slowly become attached to it too.
Saps collapses onto his bed. He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off. In silence, Flux peels off Saps’ hoodie — no use hiding it from Saps now, they both know he’s got it — and tosses it into the laundry basket. He changes into sweatpants. His phone buzzes; it’s Thomas, who has sent him a little winking emoji and a kiss. Ugh. Flux wrinkles his nose and debates sending something pithy back, but then Saps rolls over and stares at the ceiling, and all of Flux’s attention is suddenly captured by him.
“So?” Flux says at last.
“It wasn’t that bad. He bought me a lot of drinks.” A beat. “Like a lot. Also, he told me that everyone in the Covenant would vote for me next year. So there’s that.”
“Oh, right.” Flux had almost forgotten. “Schpood asked me to ask you to spy on the Covenant. Something about intramurals.”
“Ugh. I’m like a mediator. I’m not supposed to be spying on people. It’s awful.”
“Are you going to do it?” Then, to clarify, Flux says, “Are you going to go out with Turntapp again?”
“He does pay for everything.”
Abruptly insulted, Flux says, “I pay for everything.”
“Yeah, but like.” Saps makes an inarticulate gesture into the air. “It’s different when you do it.”
Flux swings his legs into bed. His side of the room is all dark and dreary. Cynikka called it emo when she helped him set it up at the start of the fall semester. She’d looked at all the black and purple decor and said really? You’re not thirteen anymore.
Flux glowered. He yanked the neon sign out of her hands and set it firmly on the shelf. Just unpack things. I don’t care where they go.
Now he spreads his hands over the duvet. It’s a nice duvet. He loves staring at duvets, actually. Anything that stops him from staring at his roommate and best friend who is drunk and sprawled out and beautiful and is maybe going on another date with someone who isn’t Flux.
“I am no longer drinking on the first date,” Saps announces.
It’s almost enough to make Flux laugh. “Only the second date, then?”
“It would have to be the right person.” Saps kicks his shoes off, rolls over, and doesn’t even bother getting under the covers. “I’d drink on the first date with you.”
Flux opens and closes his mouth. A little dumbly, he says, “Wait, what?”
Saps only responds with one very loud snore. Flux’s traitorous heart leaps in his chest, and he forcibly shoves it back down. Someone is screaming very loudly outside, which is typical for a Friday night on a tiny liberal arts campus. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time. He stares at the ceiling, eyes hot, and tries not to think about anything at all.