Name me one doctor who knows what a tenterhook is, Charlie says.

Before either of us can answer, a rustling sound comes from inside the bedroom I share with Paul. Suddenly, standing before us at the door, wearing only boxers and a T-shirt, is Paul himself.

Just one? he asks, rubbing his eyes. Tobias Smollett. He was a surgeon.

Charlie glances back at the magnets. Figures.

Gil chuckles, but says nothing.

We thought you went to Ivy, Charlie says, when the pause becomes noticeable.

Paul shakes his head, backtracking into his room to pick up his notebook. His straw-colored hair is pressed flat on one side, and there are pillow creases on his face. Not enough privacy, he says. I've been working in my bunk again. Fell asleep.

He's hardly gotten a wink in two nights, maybe more. Paul's advisor, Dr. Vincent Taft, has pressed him to produce more and more documentation every week-and unlike most advisors, who are happy to let seniors hang by the rope of their own expectations, Taft has kept a hand at Paul's back from the start.

So, what about it, Tom? Gil asks, filling the silence. What's your decision?

I glance up at the table. He's talking about the letters in front of me, which I've been eyeing between each sentence in my book. The first letter is from the University of Chicago, offering me admission to a doctoral program in English. Books are in my blood, the same way medical school is in Charlie's, and a Ph.D. from Chicago would suit me just fine. I did have to scrap for the acceptance letter a little more than I wanted to, partly because my grades at Princeton have been middling, but mainly because I don't know exactly what I want to do with myself, and a good graduate program can smell indecision like a dog can smell fear.

Take the money, Gil says, never taking his eyes off Audrey Hepburn.

Gil is a banker's son from Manhattan. Princeton has never been a destination for him, just a window seat with a view, a stopover on the way to Wall Street. He is a caricature of himself in that respect, and he manages a smile whenever we give him a hard time about it. He'll be smiling all the way to the bank, we know; even Charlie, who's sure to make a small fortune as a doctor, won't hold a candle to the kind of paychecks Gil will see.

Don't listen to him, Paul says from the other side of the room. Follow your heart.

I look up, surprised that he's aware of anything but his thesis.

Follow the money Gil says, standing up to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

What'd they offer? Charlie asks, ignoring the magnets for a second.

Forty— one, Gil guesses, and a few Elizabethan words tumble from the fridge as he closes it. Bonus of five. Plus options.

Spring semester is job season, and 1999 is a buyer's market. Forty-one thousand dollars a year is roughly double what I expected to be earning with my lowly English degree, but compared to some of the deals I've seen classmates make, you'd think it was barely getting by.

I pick up the letter from Daedalus, an Internet firm in Austin that claims to have developed the world's most advanced software for streamlining the corporate back office. I know almost nothing about the company, let alone what a back office is, but a friend down the hall suggested I interview with them, and as rumors circulated about high starting salaries at this unknown Texas start-up, I went. Daedalus, following the general trend, didn't care that I knew nothing about them or their business. If I could just solve a few brainteasers at an interview, and seem reasonably articulate and friendly in the process, the job was mine. Thus, in good Caesarian fashion, I could, I did, and it was.

Close, I say, reading from the letter. Forty-three thousand a year. Signing bonus of three thousand. Fifteen hundred options.

And a partridge in a pear tree, Paul adds from across the room. He's the only one acting like it's dirtier to talk about money than it is to touch it. Vanity of vanities.

Charlie is shifting the magnets again. In a fulminating baritone he imitates the preacher at his church, a tiny black man from Georgia who just finished his degree at the Princeton Theological Seminary. Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.

Be honest with yourself, Tom, Paul says impatiently, though he never makes eye contact. Any company that thinks you deserve a salary like that isn't going to be around for long. You don't even know what they do. He returns to his notebook, scribbling away. Like most prophets, he is fated to be ignored.

Gil keeps his focus on the television, but Charlie looks up, hearing the edge in Paul's voice. He rubs a hand along the stubble on his chin, then says, All right, everybody stop. I think it's time to let off some steam.

For the first time, Gil turns away from the movie. He must hear what I hear: the faint emphasis on the word steam.

Right now? I ask.

Gil looks at his watch, taking to the idea. We'd be clear for about half an hour, he says, and in a show of support he even turns off the television, letting Audrey fizzle into the tube.

Charlie flips his Fitzgerald shut, mischief stirring. The broken spine springs open in protest, but he tosses the book onto the couch.

I'm working, Paul objects. I need to finish this.

He glances at me oddly.

What? I ask.

But Paul remains silent.

What's the problem, girls? Charlie says impatiently.

It's still snowing out there, I remind everyone.

The first snowstorm of the year came howling into town today, just when spring seemed perched on the tip of every tree branch. Now there are calls for a foot of accumulation, maybe more. The Easter weekend festivities on campus, which this year include a Good Friday lecture by Paul's thesis advisor, Vincent Taft, have been reorganized. This is hardly the weather for what Charlie has in mind.

You don't have to meet Curry until 8:30, right? Gil asks Paul, trying to convince him. We'll be done by then. You can work more tonight.

Richard Curry, an eccentric former friend of my father's and Taft's, has been a mentor of Paul's since freshman year. He has put Paul in touch with some of the most prominent art historians in the world, and has funded much of Paul's research on the Hypnerotomachia.

Paul weighs his notebook in his hand. Just looking at it, the fatigue returns to his eyes.

Charlie senses that he's coming around. We'll be done by 7:45, he says.

What are the teams? Gil asks.

Charlie thinks it over, then says, Tom's with me.

The game we're about to play is a new spin on an old favorite: a fast-paced match of paintball in a maze of steam tunnels below campus. Down there, rats are more common than lightbulbs, the temperature hits three digits in the dead of winter, and the terrain is so dangerous that even the campus police are forbidden to give chase. Charlie and Gil came up with the idea during an exam period sophomore year, inspired by an old map Gil and Paul found at their eating club, and by a game Gil's father used to play in the tunnels with his friends as seniors.

The newer version gained popularity until nearly a dozen members of Ivy and most of Charlie's friends from his EMT squad were in on it. It seemed to surprise them when Paul became one of the game's best navigators; only the four of us understood it, knowing how often Paul used the tunnels to get to and from Ivy on his own. But gradually Paul's interest in the game waned. It frustrated him that no one else saw the strategic possibilities of it, the tactical ballet. He wasn't there when an errant shot punctured a steam pipe during a big midwinter match; the explosion stripped plastic safety casings off live power lines for ten feet in either direction, and might've cooked two half-drunk juniors, had Charlie not pulled them out of the way. The proctors, Princeton's campus police, caught on, and within days the dean had rained down a spate of punishments. In the aftermath, Charlie replaced paint guns and pellets with something faster but less risky: an old set of laser-tag guns he picked up at a yard sale. Still, as graduation approaches, the administration has imposed a zero-tolerance policy on disciplinary infractions. Getting caught in the tunnels tonight could mean suspension or worse.