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"Well, I'm glad to hear it." He picked up a small wooden tree, hand-carved in some German town or other, and mindlessly rolled it between his fingers. "When is it coming out?" he asked.

"What?"

"Your article?"

"Oh, soon." I stood to leave before he could dig for details. As I heaved my bag onto my shoulder, something on Paul's desk caught my attention.

A stack of papers in the corner. He followed my gaze. "Oh, goodness," he said. "Have you seen this? Awful, just awful." He pulled a page off the top and handed it to me. "I offered to distribute them around campus."

In the center of the page was a photograph of a girl's face. She was staring at the camera, lips parted, hair long and dark, a dimple in one cheek. Have you seen me? was written across the top. Below the photograph was her name: Lucia Vanotti. She was twenty years old.

"Oh, and Neil," Paul said. "Please do let me know when the article comes out."

* * *

Jack Sheridan was in the dining hall when I arrived, the remnants of a ham sandwich on his tray.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

I sank into the chair across from him and dropped my head into my hands. "I told him I was about to publish something."

Jack winced.

"Well, it could be worse," he said. "You could be grading papers about Martin Heidegger fucking Hannah Arendt. While being a Nazi. And married."

"No!"

"Yes!" He flashed me a student paper. Jack pretended to be exasperated, but I knew better. He loved those kids, and they loved him back. I remember when teaching felt that way to me. When I'd step into a classroom, and all the chaos inside of me would go quiet. When a two-hour lecture was a bulwark against my own disappearance.

Still, Jack had something I never had. He was handsome.

Outlandishly so. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and his suede boots worn in. Jack's classes had waiting lists. His waiting lists had waiting lists.

I swiped a potato chip off his tray and glanced around the dining hall. That's when I saw her. I wasn't intentionally looking. I swear, I wasn't.

Jack swiveled in his seat to follow my eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he said.

"What?"

"Stop."

"I'm not doing anything. I'm just looking around." "Well, stop looking. It's pathetic."

I didn't respond, but I shifted in my seat so that I could no longer see her. Phaedra, my wife. My ex-wife. Her head bent low, talking to Tim Janek, her new husband. Also in our department.

"Hey," Jack said, "want to grab a drink tonight?" Solid friend. I appreciated the effort.

"I don't know." The meeting with Paul had soured my mood. And now, Phaedra. Even though we taught in the same department, I could go weeks without seeing her. Things were easier when our paths didn't cross.

"Come on," Jack pushed. "One drink."

"I should write."

"Ah, okay. Good for you." He meant it. Jack was concerned about my dim prospects for tenure.

Across the dining hall, a student was making his way through the tables collecting signatures for one cause or another. Before Phaedra left, I used to sign each one. Ban plastic bags. Save endangered wolves. Support elections somewhere. Show me the dotted line. It's not that I cared so much about changing the world; it's that I wanted my students to believe in change. To believe that their voices mattered. These days, I found it excruciating to look them in the eye when they sidled up with their hopes and their good intentions. The boy with the petition was making his way toward our table.

"Let's go," I said, urging Jack along.

"Relax." He slurped his Diet Coke. "I'm not done."

Too late.