At the rear door to Dod, I realize we have no way in. Paul flags down a senior from upstairs, who gives us an odd look before lending us his ID card. A small pad registers its proximity with a beep, then unlocks the door with a sound like a shotgun being shucked. In the basement, two junior women are folding clothes on an open table, wearing T-shirts and tiny boxer shorts in the swelter of the laundry room. It never fails: walking through the laundry room in winter is like entering a desert mirage, air shivering with heat, bodies fantastic. When it's snowing outside, the sight of bare shoulders and legs is better than a shot of whiskey to get the blood pumping again. We're nowhere near Holder, but it feels like we've stumbled onto the waiting room for the Nude Olympics.

I climb to the first floor and head toward the north flank of the building, where our room is the final quad. Paul trails behind me, silent. The closer we get, the more I find myself thinking of the two letters on the coffee table again. Even Bill's discovery isn't enough to distract me. For weeks I've fallen asleep to the thought of what a person could do with forty-three thousand dollars a year. Fitzgerald wrote a short story once about a diamond the size of the Ritz, and in the moments before I doze off, when the proportions of things are in flux, I can imagine buying a ring with that diamond in it, for a woman just on the other side of the dream. Some nights I think of buying enchanted items, the way children do in games they play, like a car that would never crash, or a leg that would always heal. Charlie keeps me honest when I get carried away. He says I ought to buy a collection of very expensive platform shoes, or put a down payment on a house with low ceilings.

What are they doing? Paul says, pointing down the hall.

Standing side by side at the end of the corridor are Charlie and Gil. They're looking into the open doorway of our room, where someone is pacing inside. A second glance tells me everything: the campus police are here. Someone must've seen us coming out of the tunnels.

What's going on? Paul says, quickening his steps.

I hurry to follow him.

The proctor is sizing up something on our floor. I can hear Charlie and Gil arguing, but can't make out the words. Just as I start to prepare excuses for what we've done, Gil sees us coming and says, It's okay. Nothing was taken.

What?

He points toward the doorway. The room, I see now, is in disarray. Couch cushions are on the floor; books are thrown off shelves. In the bedroom I share with Paul, dresser drawers hang open.

Oh God… Paul whispers, pushing between Charlie and me.

Someone broke in, Gil explains.

Someone walked in, Charlie corrects. The door was unlocked.

I turn to Gil, the last one out. For the past month Paul has asked us to keep the room tight while he finished his thesis. Gil is the only one who forgets.

Look, he says defensively, pointing at the window across the room. They came in through there. Not through the door.

A puddle of water has formed beneath a window by the north face of the common room. Its sash is thrown wide, and snow is gathering on the sill, swimming on the back of the wind. There are three huge slashes through the screen.

I step forward into my bedroom with Paul. His eyes are running along the edge of his desk drawers, rising toward the library books mounted on a wall shelf Charlie built him. The books are gone. His head shifts back and forth, searching. His breathing is loud. For an instant we're back in the tunnels; nothing is familiar but the voices.

It doesn't matter, Charlie. That's not how they got in.

It doesn't matter to you, because they didn't take anything of yours.

The proctor is still pacing through the common room.

Someone must've known… Paul mumbles to himself.

Look down here, I say, pointing at the lower mattress on the bunk.

Paul turns. The books are safe. Hands shaking, he begins to check the titles.

I pad through my own belongings, finding almost everything untouched. The dust has hardly been disturbed. Someone rifled through my papers, but only a framed reproduction of the Hypnerotomachia's title page, a gift from my father, has been taken off the wall and opened. One corner is bent, but otherwise it's undamaged. I hold it in my hands. Looking around, I spot a single book of mine out of place: the galley proof of The Belladonna Letter, before my father decided The Belladonna Document had a nicer ring to it.

Gil steps into the foyer between the bedrooms and calls to us. They didn't touch anything of Charlie's or mine. What about you guys?

There's a spot of guilt in his voice, a hopefulness that despite the mess, nothing is gone.

When I look in his direction, I notice what he means. The other bedroom is pristine.

My stuff's fine, I tell him.

They didn't find anything, Paul says to me.

Before I can ask what he means, a voice interrupts from the foyer.

Could I ask you two a few questions?

The proctor, a woman with leathery skin and curled hair, takes a slow look at us as we appear, snow-soaked, from the corners of the room. The sight of Katie's sweatpants on Paul, and of Katie's synchronized swimming shirt on me, catches her attention. The woman, identified as Lieutenant Williams by the tag on her breast pocket, pulls a steno pad from her coat.

You two are…?

Tom Sullivan, I say. He's Paul Harris.

Was anything of yours taken?

Paul's eyes are still searching his room, ignoring the proctor.

We don't know, I say.

She glances up. Have you looked around?

We haven't noticed anything missing yet.

Who was the last person to leave the room tonight?

Why?

Williams clears her throat. Because we know who left the door unlocked, but not who left the window open.

She lingers over the words door and window, reminding us of how we brought this on ourselves.

Paul notices the window for the first time. His color fades. It must've been me. It was so hot in the bedroom, and Tom didn't want the window open. I came out here to work and I must've forgotten to shut it.

Look, Gil says to the proctor, seeing she's not trying to help, can we finish this up? I don't think there's anything else to see.

Without waiting for an answer, he forces the window shut and leads Paul to the couch, sitting beside him.

The proctor makes a final scribble in her pad. Window open, door unlocked. Nothing taken. Anything else?

We're all silent.

Williams shakes her head. Burglaries are hard to resolve, she says, as if she's wrestling with our high expectations. We'll report it to the borough police. Next time, lock up before you leave. You might save yourself some trouble. We'll be in touch if we have any more information.

She trudges toward the exit, boots squeaking at each step. The door swings shut on its own.

I walk over to the window for another look. The melted snow on the floor is perfectly clear.

They're not going to do a thing, Charlie says, shaking his head.

It's okay, Gil says. Nothing was stolen.

Paul is silent, but his eyes are still scanning the room.

I raise the sash, letting the wind rush into the room again. Gil turns to me, annoyed, but I'm staring at the cuts in the screen. They follow the border of the frame on three sides, leaving the material to flap in the wind like a dog door. I look down at the floor again. The only mud is from my shoes.

Tom, Gil calls back to me, shut the damned window. Now Paul turns to look as well.

The flap is pushed out, as if someone left through the window. But something's wrong. The proctor never bothered to notice it.

Come look at this, I say, running my fingers over the fibers of the screen at the edge of each cut. Like the flap, all of the incisions point outward. If someone had cut the screen to get in, the sliced edges would point toward us.