"They must like Twin Peaks up here," Tim said. He hadn't been able to place it at first – the colors were wrong – but the sheets and the strobes gave the floor a definite Black Lodge vibe.

Roland didn't turn around. It was impossible to hear over the bass.

Tim felt a tug on his Cloak. Just the slightest hesitation in his forward movement, like a character in a video game on a sluggish computer. A song rose to his lips, unbidden. "Don't spit into the wind..."

Roland disappeared around another right turn. Another tug at the Cloak, harder this time. Tim turned around and came face to a face with a thing that should not be. "Roland," he said, but it was swallowed by the bass, and then the white enveloped him.

******

For what felt like five minutes all Tim could see was the inside of a white sheet as he was manhandled down the hall, through a door, down another hall, through a few more doors. The sheet was a screen in front of his eyes, flickering black and white as the light changed around him, but showing him nothing but static. The bass receded a little more with every door they entered.

He was pushed through another door and then a hand on a shoulder forced him down. His ass hit the familiar concave wood seat of a standard-issue Wintertree desk chair. The bass had disappeared.

A hand pulled the sheet away, and Tim's field of vision was filled with an enormous Reservoir Dogs poster, six men in black suits walking across a blood-spattered field of white.

"Forgive the décor," a voice said, slightly nasal but also thick. "You children have such homogenous taste. I'd prefer to do this in my own dwelling, but this will have to do."

A chair was placed between Tim and the poster, and a squat, bearded man sat in it. His beard and his thick, unkempt hair were dark brown streaked with gray. "Nice to meet you, Tim," he said. He offered his hand.

Before Tim took it, he realized: he'd seen this man before. He came to see Dragonstar in 79A. Tim had assumed he was one of Neal's friends, maybe a professor. He hadn't talked to him.

Tim hesitated, and the man withdrew his hand with a sheepish grin. "Yes, our paths have crossed. But technically, we haven't met."

Tim looked around the room. They were in a dorm room, like any other in Wintertree. Smaller posters for Trainspotting, Pulp Fiction and Scarface orbited the big Reservoir Dogs poster. The door was less than ten feet to Tim's right, but two guys flanked it. Neither was much bigger than Tim, but they were wiry and angular, and they stared at Tim with unmasked contempt. One of them twitched every few seconds.

"Don't worry about them," said the bearded man. "We're just borrowing their room for a minute. You'll be free to leave and get back to your game soon enough."

"Who are you?" said Tim.

"I used to live in 79 Wintertree Hall, once upon a time. And when I lived there I hid something very valuable in 79A. In your room. Or, I guess, to be accurate, in a place that is only accessible from your room. I thought no one would ever be able to find it. But now someone is looking for it, and he's found the key. It's only a matter of time before he finds the door that it unlocks."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"I need you to retrieve this object for me, before it falls into the wrong hands."

A quest. Tim thrilled at the thought. But this man had means. He'd even been in 79A recently. "Why do you need me?"

The man reached for his chin, and his fingers disappeared in the thick tangle of his beard. "Because Wintertree no longer listens to me. That's why I came to your room, to find what I'd hidden. But I was denied. I no longer have the key."

"What key?"

"Read your Handbook. It will tell you what to do." He pulled at a knot in his beard and his hand came free. "But do it quickly. And if you should meet a man named Peter Kirkland, do not talk to him. Do not answer his questions. Get away from him as fast as you can. And do not, under any circumstances, let him into your room."

Tim's head hurt from the rush of information. He hadn't even agreed to do this.

Be honest. You're not turning down a quest.

The bearded man stood. He wasn't much taller standing than he was sitting. He held out the Polaroid to Tim. "Don't forget this."

One of the angry roommates opened the door, and the other hauled Tim out of the chair and shoved him through it. The door slammed shut behind him.

In the hall, the strobe lights were still flashing, but the music had stopped. Roland was gone. Tim wouldn't be able to find his way back to the elevator without him. He thought about knocking on the door he'd just exited, to ask for directions, but he knew that no one would answer.

He heard a door open, around a corner up ahead. He crept up and peeked around the corner. Stacy was walking down the hall, the door to a stairwell swinging shut behind her. She assumed, or knew, that Tim had found her Mausoleum, and she was trying to take the MiloBall and put it in the Red Mausoleum before Tim could make it to the auditorium and find the Head Referee.

Stacy pushed through a door to her left. Now was Tim's chance. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairwell, the Cloak billowing behind him. He shouldered through the door and bounded down the steps, hoping they would take him all the way down.

He went down two flights, three, using the handrails to vault over four, five steps at a time. He'd never felt more like Batman in his life. He had a purpose. He had direction. He had people who were counting on him – people who would lift him up in celebration when he achieved their common goal. He had a team, and they needed him. His future was clear now. He saw every step on the path, lined with friends welcoming him with smiles and outstretched hands.

Tim took the last flight in two swinging leaps. There were no more steps curving around to his right, only a blank wall, and a door in front of him. The door to the basement. He pushed on the door, but it was heavier than he expected, and he only opened it halfway to wriggle through. He saw the auditorium up ahead, down the hall, but after two steps the Cloak caught, pulling tight against his throat. He door had closed on the trailing end of the Cloak.

He reached back to pull the door open and free it, but there was no handle, no edge that his fingers could find purchase on. He pushed, but the door didn't budge. He pulled on the Cloak, but it was stuck, caught where the corner of the door met the jamb.

"Look at this." Tim looked over his shoulder, toward the auditorium. It was Reese, advancing on him with slow, heavy footsteps. "A second chance. I knew Milo liked me." Tim pulled on the Cloak again, hoping it might at least rip. "Where's the—" Reese noticed the Polaroid in Tim's hand. "Aw. You thought you were about to win." Reese was just a few steps away now. He reached out his meaty hand to tag Tim. "So sad."

Tim gave the Cloak one final, desperate tug. The door flew open, and Tim tumbled to the floor at Reese's feet. A shape sprang through the doorway, over Tim, touching Reese on the head as it passed.

"Goddamn it!" Reese yelled. He froze, his arm still reaching for the tag.

"Sorry, Reese." Roland offered his hand to Tim and pulled him to his feet. "What happened to you on Four?"

"I just got turned around."

"I told you to stick with me. You still got the picture?"

Tim held up the Polaroid. "I saw Stacy up there. She was going for the MiloBall."

"Don't worry about her. Jay and Rosa are running interference." Roland beckoned to Tim, toward the auditorium, toward victory, toward the future.