On the desk, nearly hidden under a stack of envelopes, was a sentence. It was in the cold, distant font of a typewriter. It looked as if it had been written a long time ago; the text was so faded and the page so yellowed that Mary could barely read it. She leaned down to get a better look.

Deanna would be the same age as Polly if not

That was all. The rest of the words were hidden beneath the envelopes. Mary pushed the envelopes aside and leaned in for a closer look.

“What are you doing?” someone said.

It was Troy. He was standing at the door looking at her, arms at his sides, as if he couldn’t believe that she would enter the office uninvited.

“I’m just…,” she tried. “I was just putting my note on his desk.”

“I said,” Troy stated flatly, “that if you give it to me, it will get to Dr. Williams. I promise.” Then he smiled-it was a stern, rigid gesture.

“There,” said Mary, pointing at the note she had laid on his desk.

Troy read the note. He had to spin the paper around so that the words weren’t upside down, and when he did this Mary saw the weird tattoo on the back of his hand. It was an S and a P entangled. The S was almost serpentine. Its head was drawn up as if it was ready to strike down on the soft, nearly feminine P. Mary thought that whoever did this was talented, and she wanted to ask Troy what it meant.

But then he finished with the note and stood looking at her. His eyes had changed: he was more tentative with her, more cool. “So you’re trying to find Polly,” he said.

“Yes.”

Troy only nodded, but she silently urged him to go on. She badly wanted to know what he knew, but it appeared that he wasn’t going to volunteer anything more.

“Do you know him well?” she asked, trying to goad Troy into giving up some information about Williams.

“Not too well. He just called me up this summer and asked me if I would run for him. I’m just a gofer. He wants all these books catalogued before the fall term’s out. He wants someone to type some stuff for him. Just the usual crap. It’s money, though, so I couldn’t pass it up.”

“Does he ever talk about Polly?”

“No,” Troy said evenly. “That’s top secret stuff, man.” He laughed, then, a stoner’s giggle.

“Did he make it all up?”

“He made most of it up. Except…”

“Except what?” she led him.

“Except there was a real case. A long time ago, back in the eighties. This girl went missing and was never found.”

“So this girl is Polly?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Polly is fiction. She isn’t meant to symbolize anything except the illogic that is sometimes in the world. Or at least that’s what Leonard says. What, you think she’s real or something?” He stared at her. “Uh-uh. It’s like they say in the movies: Polly is based on a true story.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Mary. Though she wasn’t sure if she did or not. In fact, she wasn’t sure what she’d meant. “I’m talking about him. Missing girls. Vengeful boyfriends. It’s not the stuff of academia, if you know what I mean. I was wondering if…you know.”

“If he has a daughter who was abducted? If he lived through something like this?”

“Well, it just seems so real. There’s something personal about it for him.”

“They all ask that question. Listen, he just changes her name. When I took his class, she was named Jean. Last fall she was Elizabeth. Same story, same girl, different outcome.”

Mary was disappointed. She’d wanted to hear something else, but she didn’t know what.

When it was apparent that there was nothing more to say, she thanked Troy and left Dr. Williams’s office. As she was leaving, he called down the hall to her, “Watch out for him. He was always misdirecting us.”

Brian House wanted to get fucked up. Fucked up beyond all recognition, they said. FUBAR. He wanted to lose the world and wake up tomorrow in somebody’s bathtub. Currently he was standing out on the balcony of the Deke house, drinking mojitos. Inside, some girl named Brandy tended a makeshift bar that was really just an old door laid between two cinder-block columns. He was already feeling it, that far-off buzz, the zinging collision of all the molecules in the world. When he drank, he got tuned in. It was like blowing glass or getting laid: the world softening, darkening, imploding like a breath sucked in and then held.

“Hey,” said someone at his shoulder. It was that girl, Tannie or Bonnie or whatever her name was. She was sort of ugly in the face but had a hot body, and she was coming on to him. There was something weird about her, though. The way she talked and walked and moved, as if she were faking everything. Still, it was getting late, and there were no other possibilities that he saw in his immediate future.

They went inside, where the music was pulsing and physical around them, and they danced. She was hiding her face from him for some reason. Was she scarred? Brian tried to look at her, but the mojitos were clouding everything. A song bled out and another came on. It was a slower song, grinding riffs of steel guitar, poetry in the lyrics. She leaned into him and breathed warmly onto his chest. She said something-mumbled, actually-but he couldn’t hear anything over the throbbing music.

They were outside again. On the balcony. “Get happy,” somebody said, handing him something. Acid. He’d done it before, once. He put it on his tongue and closed his eyes.

They were back inside, sitting on a ratty sofa that smelled as if it had been dragged from a fire. Two girls were sitting Indian-style on the floor, kissing with their tongues. The Dekes had all taken off their shirts and painted symbols on their chests. The paint was peeling in the heat and flaking down to the floor.

They were out on the yard. The Dekes were running naked across the lawn. Somebody was letting off fireworks. Bottle rockets zipped through the air. Soon, it would be term’s end and Brian would go home. The thought depressed him. Home. He dreaded it, the drive to New York, his mother asking him how he was doing in his classes, his father drinking beer in that pathetic apartment he was renting, the Great Pall of Marcus hanging over them all. The dreary knowledge that nothing could ever be right again. “What’s wrong?” the girl asked. Tannie or Bonnie. She was frustratingly difficult to hear. To understand. Or even see clearly. He shook his head, told her not to worry about it.

They were on the balcony again. The atmosphere was weird, charred. No one was out there. The world was bending and swerving. The girl was still at his arm, still hiding her face. “What are you doing with your face?” he asked.

“I’m saving myself for you,” she said. Or that’s what she might have said. He couldn’t be sure. The balcony rail was holding him up. Sparks ran across the Deke yard. Naked sparks. Little blurs of men. Tiny men. Scores of them. They wouldn’t stop. They were in a race with each other, running toward something fiercely, fighting for some distant finish line.

Later. They were in the art building. Down by the glassblowing kilns. Someone had spread out a blanket on the concrete floor. Brian was on his back, and the girl was on her knees beside him. She was wearing just her bra and panties. She was doing that face thing again, with her chin on her shoulder. Something was hidden. “Here,” he said, trying to take her face and turn it toward him. But she wouldn’t turn. Her dark hair was over one eye, but she looked at him intently with the other. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Polly,” the girl said.

“What the fuck did you say?” he asked.

“My name’s Polly,” the girl said. And then she laughed. It was a mad and desperate cackle, a screech. Someone was in the building with them, firing up a kiln, the growl of the fire echoing off the wide walls. “I’ve told you that twice already.”