What the hell? I snap, almost losing my balance.

He runs the beam of his flashlight across a wooden plank bridging a deep trough in the tunnel. We've both crossed it in previous games.

What's wrong?

He gingerly presses a foot down on the board.

It's fine, Charlie says, visibly relieved. No water damage.

I wipe my forehead, finding it soaked with sweat.

Okay, he says. Let's go.

Charlie walks across the plank in two great strides. It's all I can do to keep my balance before landing safely on the other side.

Here. Charlie hands me one of the water bottles. Drink it.

I take a quick drink, then follow him deeper into the tunnels. We're in an undertaker's paradise, the same coffinlike view in every direction, dark walls tapering faintly toward a hazy point of convergence in the darkness.

Does this whole part of the tunnels look like a catacomb? I ask. The hand radio seems to be buzzing patches of static between my thoughts.

Like a what?

A catacomb. A tomb.

Not really. The newer parts are in a huge corrugated pipe, he says, moving his hands in an undulating pattern, like a wave, to suggest the surface. It's like walking on ribs. Makes you think you were swallowed by a whale. Sort of like…

He snaps his fingers, searching for a comparison. Something biblical. Something Melvillian, from English 151w.

Like Pinocchio.

Charlie looks back at me, fishing for a laugh.

It shouldn't be much farther, he says, when he doesn't get one. Turning back, he pats the receiver on his chest. Don't worry. We'll turn the corner, pop them a few times, and go home.

Just then, the radio crackles again. This time there's no doubt: it's Gil's voice.

Endgame, Charlie.

I stop short. What does that mean?

Charlie frowns. He waits for the message to repeat, but there's no other sound.

I'm not falling for that, he says.

Falling for what?

'''Endgame. It means the game's over.

No shit, Charlie. Why?

Because something's wrong.

Wrong?

But he raises a finger, silencing me. In the distance I can hear voices.

That's them, I say.

He lifts his rifle. Come on.

Charlie's strides quickly get longer, and I have no choice but to follow. Only now, trying to keep up, do I appreciate how expertly he runs through the darkness. It's all I can do to hold him in the ray of my flashlight.

As we near a junction, he stops me. Don't turn the corner. Kill your flashlight. They'll see us coming.

I wave him on, into the opening. The radio blasts again.

Endgame, Charlie. We're in the north-south corridor under Edwards Hall.

Gil's voice is much clearer now, much closer.

I begin toward the intersection, but Charlie pushes me back. Two flashlight beams jerk in the opposite direction. Squinting in the darkness, I can make out silhouettes. They turn, hearing our approach. One of the beams falls into our sight line.

Damn! Charlie barks, shielding his eyes. He points his rifle blindly toward the light and begins to press at its trigger. I can hear the mechanical bleating of a chest receiver.

Stop it! Gil hisses.

What's the problem? Charlie calls out as we approach.

Paul is behind Gil, motionless. The two of them are standing in a trickle of light coming through the gaps in a manhole cover overhead.

Gil places a finger over his lips, then points up toward the manhole. I make out two figures standing above us in front of Edwards Hall.

Bill's trying to call me, Paul says, holding his pager toward the light. He's clearly agitated. I have to get out of here.

Charlie gives Paul a puzzled look, then gestures for him and Gil to step away from the light.

He won't move, Gil says under his breath.

Paul is directly beneath the metal lid, staring at the face of his pager as melted snow drips through the holes. There is movement above.

You're going to get us caught, I whisper.

He says he can't get reception anywhere else, Gil says.

Bill's never done this before, Paul whispers back.

I pull at his arm, but he jerks free. When he lights up the silver face of the pager and shows it to us, I see three numbers: 911.

What's that supposed to mean? Charlie whispers.

Bill must've found something, Paul says, losing patience. I need to find him.

Foot traffic in front of Edwards mashes fresh snow through the manhole. Charlie is getting tense.

Look, he says, it's a fluke. You can't get reception down he-

But he's interrupted by the pager, which begins to beep again. Now the message is a phone number: 116-7718.

What's that? Gil asks.

Paul turns the screen upside-down, forming text from the digits: BILL-911.

I'm getting out of here now, Paul says.

Charlie shakes his head. Not using that manhole. Too many people up there.

He wants to use the exit at Ivy, Gil says. I told him it was too far. We can go back to Clio. It's still a couple minutes before the proctors switch.

In the distance, tiny sets of red beads are gathering. Rats are sitting on their haunches, watching.

What's so important? I ask Paul.

We're onto something big — he begins to say.

But Charlie interrupts. Clio's our best shot, he agrees. After checking his watch, he starts to walk north. 7:24. We need to get moving.

The shape of the corridor remains boxy as we keep north, but the walls, which were once concrete, are increasingly of stone. I can hear my father's voice, explaining the etymology of the word sarcophagus.

From the Greek meaning flesh-eating… because Greek coffins were made of limestone, which consumed the entire body-everything but the teeth-within forty days.

Gil's lead has grown to twenty feet. Like Charlie, he moves quickly, accustomed to the landscape. Paul's silhouette blinks in and out of the uneven light. His hair is matted against his forehead, tamped down with sweat, and I remember that he's hardly slept in days.

Thirty yards up, we find Gil waiting for us, his eyes shifting from place to place as he shepherds us toward the exit. He's looking for a backup plan. We're taking too long.

I close my eyes, trying to see a map of campus in my thoughts.

Just fifty more feet, Charlie calls to Paul. A hundred at most.

When we arrive below the manhole near Clio, Gil turns to us.

I'll pop the lid and look out. Get ready to run back the way we came. He glances down. I've got 7:29.

He grips the lowest step iron, lifts himself into position, and raises his forearm against the manhole cover. Before applying pressure, he looks over his shoulder and says, Remember, the proctors can't come down here to get us. All they can do is tell us to come out. Stay down and don't say anyone's name. Got it?

The three of us nod.

Gil takes a deep breath, shoves his fist upward, and pivots the cover against his elbow. It cracks open half a foot. He takes a quick inventory— then a voice comes from above.

Don't move! Stay right there!

I can hear Gil hiss, Shit.

Grabbing his shirt, Charlie pulls him back, catching him as he loses his footing.

Go! Over there! Turn your flashlight off!

I stumble into the darkness, pressing Paul in front of me. I try to remember my way.

Stay to the right. Pipes on the left, stay to the right

My shoulder glances the wall and tears my shirt. Paul is staggering, exhausted by the heat. We manage twenty paces stumbling over each other before Charlie stops us so Gil can catch up. In the distance a flashlight enters the tunnel through the open manhole. An arm descends after it, followed by a head.

Come out of there!

The beam twitches in both directions, sending a triangle of light sharking through the tunnel.