Chet couldn't stop staring at the painting. It was hanging on the wall behind the desk in Ron Marston's office – a less grand and imposing room than Chet had expected, given the general aura of awed terror that always accompanied mentions of his name, but this was just a basic, smallish University functionary's office, tucked away in the warren of Student Activities offices on the first floor of the Student Union. It didn't even have a window.

The painting was grand and imposing enough by itself. It was a portrait, really, of the official variety, the kind that presidents and kings had installed in national galleries. It depicted a man from the waist up, about one a half times larger than life size. The man wore a gray flannel suit with a white shirt and a skinny black tie, like a businessman from the fifties or sixties. His face was long and thin, the skin scored with lines and furrows and stretched tight over the prominent bones of his skull. His lips were almost nonexistent, his mouth a straight line. The hair, absolutely saturated with something slick and oily, formed a thick black wall atop his forehead.

Whatever skill the artist possessed, which was considerable, it did not extend to the man's eyes. They were dull and lifeless, creating a void at the center of the image that Chet found almost irresistible. They sucked him in like a black hole. Between the dead eyes, the straight line of the mouth, and the crown of hair, Chet thought the man looked like a human version of King Milo.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Ron Marston entered the room in a cloud of Brut, underscored by notes of sweat and McMuffin. He squeezed his beer gut and his briefcase past Chet's chair and plopped down behind the desk. His blazer was just a bit too tight, as if it had fit perfectly a few months ago. "And sorry to make you come out to the Union. They stuck me in here while they do some, uh, renovations on my office. I brought a little bit of Wintertree with me, though." Marston pointed at the painting behind him. "I noticed you admiring Stanley."

"Stanley?"

"Stanley Wintertree. Director of University Housing, 1955 to 1972."

"Wow. Some coincidence with the name."

"Ha!" Marston literally shouted the word "ha." "No, Wintertree Hall was his pet project. His legacy." Marston ran his hand over his precisely mowed putting green of brown hair, the kind of haircut usually found on ex-Marines. His palm came away damp, and he wiped it on his blazer. "Stanley was a, uh, pioneer in the field of student housing. I was lucky enough to be one of the first residents of Wintertree."

"Cool." It was eight in the morning on the last Friday before classes started, and Chet had gotten about four hours of sleep. Marston seemed like a much more relaxed guy than he was expecting, but any trips down memory lane could only extend the waiting time before Chet could crawl back into bed. "So, Julian said--"

"Right. All business! I like a man who's direct." Marston pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and studied it for a second. "Julian briefed me on your situation."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's such a minor thing. I didn't think he was going to send it all the way up to the Director."

Marston waved the suggestion away. "I take a personal interest in matters of resident security. If University Housing can't provide safe, secure spaces for our residents, then what good are we?" Marston smiled, like a friendly cartoon bear. "So I understand you weren't able to provide the correct answer for the security gate on Tier 3, Inner Arm 5?"

"Right. You know the Handbook says to always answer 'Yes' to the questions, but Ben said those were the wrong answers. So I started answering 'No' for a few questions, but then those were wrong too."

"Weird. The Handbook can be a little, uh, tricky sometimes." Marston studied the paper again, harder this time.

From above and behind him, it looked like Stanley Wintertree's dead eyes were studying it too.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Moss, it appears we do have a bit of a situation here." The friendly smile disappeared. "It seems your security clearance for Wintertree has been revoked."

"By who?"

"By me."

The ends of Stanley's mouth seemed to curl up, just a bit. An absurd fear gripped Chet. He felt like the floor was going to break under him, and he would fall forever. He held on to the armrests of the chair. Wintertree is my home.

"I had a productive summer, Mr. Moss. I like to keep tabs on my residents, you see. And I found out a few things. Oh! Right there!" The smile returned, and Marston pointed at Chet. "I see that look on your face. 'Does he know about that?' Yes. I do know about that. I know all about your little He-Man Woman Haters Club."

Marston laid the paper flat on his desk. The only thing on it was a drawing of King Milo the Expired. Milo stared at Chet, accusing him.

"I don't like to say the name out loud," Marston said. "If you name something, you give it power."

Chet was sure he could hear the floorboards cracking underneath him, underneath all this weight. Soon he would fall, and he would die long before he ever hit the ground. He looked to Milo for an answer, but was met with the silence of the betrayed. "I don't," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't insult me." Marston pointed up at the painting of Stanley Wintertree. "Don't insult him." He picked up the drawing of Milo. "Him, I could give a fuck." Marston ripped the paper into halves, then fourths, then eighths, then tossed them to the side. They fluttered slowly to the ground in the still air of the office. When Chet fell, he would fall like an anvil. He was sure of it.

"Here's the thing, Chester. Chester? Chet. I feel like I can call you Chet now, since I know you so well. We're a lot alike. I told you I lived in Wintertree? I loved it, from the moment I crossed the threshold. It was the home I had always been looking for." Marston paused, looking past Chet, remembering something. "The Summer of Love, Chet. It took a few extra months to get here. But it got here all the same." He grinned, and he looked like he was on the verge of telling Chet something, but he decided against it. "The point is, I would do anything for that building. And I know you would too."

He's right. Chet knew it. He loved Wintertree, and it wasn't just because of the high ceilings in 79. He knew the place's secrets, or some of them anyway. He had found his people there, at that first lonely Welcome Night show – Jay, Holly, Reese – even though that got all complicated and screwed up when the Dead Men came calling.

You can have that again, if you want it. The voice came from above Marston. From the painting. It was a high, dusty drawl, with that friction buzz like a violin string. Stanley Wintertree was talking to him.

"I'm going to give you a new set of answers, so you shouldn't have any more problems at the security gate," Marston said. "And in return, all you need to do is keep doing your thing. Live in that amazing room – which, you're welcome, by the way. Go to your classes. Try to get laid. Whatever. But when you and your secret buddies have your midnight meetings, I need you to get close to Taylor Hollister. I know he's part of it. I want to know everything there is to know about Richie Rich. I want to know what he's doing when he's not going to class, because I know he's not going to class. I want to know what he eats, what he drinks. I want to know who he's fucking, who he's trying to fuck. I want to know what he talks to his mommy and daddy about. Do you understand? Can you do this?"

Taylor's a piece of shit anyway. All the Hollisters are. The voice dripped with contempt.

"Because if you can't do this for me, I'm going to kick you out of your precious Wintertree, and I'm going to lock you up in the fucking Tower like the two goddamn little princes, except Edward is you and Richard is a Kappa Alpha pledge who listens to nothing but Sublime. Do you understand?"

I know I wouldn't want to live in the Tower. They certainly don't adhere to my principles of student housing over there.

The painting of Stanley was making some good points. And Chet was so tired. He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing last night, why he didn't get any sleep, but all he wanted was to return to the warmth of his bed and the security of the four high walls of Wintertree 79. He wanted to go home.

Chet nodded. "Good," said Marston. He handed Chet another sheet of paper, with just the word "Maybe" printed in the center. "This should work from now on."

Marston was done with him. Chet left his makeshift office in a daze, and he wandered through the maze of Student Activities offices, trying to find his way out. He had a fucking Spin Doctors song, of all things, stuck in his head. He finally found the exit, nearly colliding with a woman with a big takeout bag from the diner as he left. "Watch it," she said, adjusting her thick, black-framed glasses. "I've got pancakes here."

Chet took a Green Line back to Wintertree, not trusting himself to walk back up Suttledge without stumbling into traffic. In the lobby, Jay was hanging out with Reese at the mailroom door. Chet wanted to wrap his arms around both of them and apologize, tell them everything, but he stopped himself. Keep doing your thing, Marston had said. Chet walked by them, head down, and swiped his card at the door.

"Yo, Chet," said Reese, before he could scan his hand. "You got some mail." Reese gestured toward the mailboxes with a half-eaten Honey Bun. The hand scanner beeped angrily, demanding his touch, as he walked over to the mailboxes and unlocked his. He pulled out the familiar purple envelope. He knew what would be inside: a white 4"x6" card, printed with a King Milo. Chet didn't open the envelope. He couldn't face him right now.

Chet reswiped his card and scanned his hand. As he opened the door, Jay said "Tell your freshman about MiloBall."

Mark, one of the RAs from Hayes, was working the security gate. He consulted the binder. "Are the dead remembered?" he asked.

"Maybe?" Chet answered. Mark opened the gate.

Chet tried to enter 79 quietly, so as not to wake Dick, but he was already up and sitting on the loveseat, eating a Pop-Tart and watching another Simpsons episode – the one where Bart goes to the Knoxville World's Fair. "Yo," said Dick. "What are you doing up?"

"What are you doing up?"

His eyes still on the TV, Dick pointed at his nose, which had a Band-Aid across the bridge. Both of his eyes were ringed with purple. "Fucking broke my nose or some shit. Couldn't sleep."

"What the hell happened?"

Dick shrugged. "Fuck if I know."

Trying to get an answer out of Dick was such a fucking chore sometimes. "You can't remember how you broke your nose?"

Dick shrugged. "Maybe I fell off the loft while I was sleeping."

"And then you put a Band-Aid on it while you were sleepwalking?"

"Stranger things, man. Maybe fucking what's-his-name did it. Tim."

Chet climbed up to the platform outside 79A and peeked in. Tim was sitting on the bad bed, reading his Handbook. "Tim," Chet said. "Did you put a Band-Aid on Dick's nose after he fell off the loft last night?"

Tim looked up from the Handbook, alarmed. "Dick fell off the loft?"

"No, I... I don't know. Fucking idiot broke his nose and doesn't remember how."

"I heard that," shouted Dick through a mouthful of Pop-Tart.

"That's crazy," said Tim.

"That's Dick, unfortunately." Chet nodded toward the good bed, which was still bare. "Why are you on the shitty bed, dude? Get the good one before your roommate shows up. The Handbook has like a whole chapter on it."

Tim looked over at the good bed like he was seeing it for the first time. "Shit. Good call."

"When is he showing up, anyway?"

Tim kept staring at the bed. He turned to look at the dresser, like he was expecting to see something there, then back to the bed. His face scrunched up, like he was trying to do long division in his head. "You know what," he said, "I have no idea."

Well, 20 chapters and 47,000 words later, we're through the first... 12 hours of the story. Can you even keep up with this blistering pace? On Friday, a very special chapter will take us back in time, all the way back to 1984, for a glimpse of the origins of Wintertree room 79A. After that, things will start moving a little more quickly. We may even make it to the actual beginning of fall semester!