They sat there in Alex's turd of a Ford ("Fix Or Repair Daily," Dick used to say every time he saw an F-150 or a Crown Vic in the Wintertree parking lot, until Chet told him he was going to hit him if he said it one more fucking time) for like four hours, in the parking lot of some crappy off-campus apartment complex, staring at the beige siding that got more cosmically sad with every passing minute – Chet never understood why any student would choose to live in one of these depressing boxes, these rehearsal rooms for the boring adulthoods they, as yet, still had time to avoid. Even worse than the Tower, and that was saying something.

He couldn't decide if it was more or less sad that the person whose apartment they were staking out was an actual adult. A professor even. Students shouldn't have lived in those apartments, but they were also the only people who could have. It would have been beyond humiliating for an adult to live there. That's what houses were for, even if you could only afford one of the death traps in the Litterbox. It gave Chet a chill just thinking about it. How could you look at a professor and believe that he had any wisdom to share if you knew that he was going home to some off-white shoebox, eating frozen pizza at the kitchen counter under the flat white glare of a Walmart halogen lamp, listening to the muffled thumps of the neighbors through the walls and hoping they're the sounds of passion and not something worse?

"Dude how long do we have to do this?" Alex had been picking at the seam of the faux leather on the Taurus' steering wheel with a single-minded intensity for like the past hour. He was fiending – for what, exactly, Chet didn't know. For his own part, Chet would have chewed off his own arm to get out of the car and go see Kenya.

"Until it's done," said Roger.

Alex's fingernail found purchase on a corner of the faux leather and started to pull, slowly. "That's not an answer." The leatherette strip broke, not even as long as Alex's fingernail. He rolled down the window and tossed it out. It bounced off the side of the black Jetta parked next to the Taurus. Alex did a weird double-take and rolled the window back up.

Chet wondered what he would say to Ron Marston about this night. "We hung out in a parking lot with a filthy townie for-fucking-ever. Alex Whateverhislastnameis saw a Jetta and got spooked. Still no idea what Taylor Hollister does with his free time, besides probably Alex's girlfriend."

Roger straightened in his seat. "Here we go." A man was descending the stairs in front of their parking spot, a bulging canvas messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked to be in his thirties, slight but fit, his hair long enough to suggest he still identified as young, but not so long that the olds wouldn't recognize him as one of their own. Chet saw it all the time: like half the adults on this campus, in this town, this guy was trying to prolong his own youth via proximity to the young. Even Roger, in his own way, was guilty.

Roger looked at Alex, then back at Chet, sizing them up. "You," he said to Chet. "Come on. You're more threatening."

"Are you kidding?" said Alex.

"What do you weigh, ninety pounds? Eat a cheeseburger, rock star." Roger turned back to Chet. "Just stand there and try to look menacing. Let me do the talking."

Roger opened his door and got out. Chet did the same. The guy was walking toward them. He pointed a key fob at the Jetta, and its lights flashed as the doors unlocked.

"Dr. Burton," said Roger. The guy halted, his hair in mid-flop. He looked up at Roger, then Chet, an animal weighing its options. He slid the messenger bag in front of his belly, to protect his soft parts. "Relax, Doc," said Roger. "We're students. He is, anyway. I'm more of an alum, I guess you'd say. We're looking for a friend of ours."

Burton straightened up, pushed his hair back behind his ear. He tried to protect professorial authority. "Gentlemen, it's late. I have posted office hours. I don't know why you'd think—"

"Joanie McKittrick," said Roger. Burton's face lost its haughty cast again. His left hand flattened against the bag. Chet knew that name from somewhere.

"She's a student of mine."

"I bet she is."

Burton sniffed. He was scared of Roger, that was clear. But you'd be scared of any greasy townie who accosted you in a dark parking lot, Chet figured. That fear was leavened by something else – contempt, probably. Maybe even pity. Insinuations about teacher-student impropriety couldn't hurt him, not from a guy who barely registered as human to a guy like Dr. Burton. The worst Roger had to offer was the threat of physical violence. That wasn't nothing, but it also wasn't much.

"Good night, gentlemen." Burton took the last few steps to the driver's door of the Jetta and pulled the latch. Roger kicked the passenger-side door with his filthy Doc Marten, leaving a foot-shaped dent in the door.

"What the fuck?" said Burton.

"We're not fucking around here, Doc. We know Joanie McKittrick is with you. If you go and get her for us, this is the worst that's going to happen."

"I don't know where she is! If you don't leave, I'm calling the police—"

Roger kicked the door again, deepening the dent. "I'm not fucking guessing here, Doc. We know she's with you, because we've been watching you. So stop jerking me around and go get her."

If Roger thought this was going to scare Burton into capitulation, he was wrong. Cold fury flashed in Burton's eyes. "This was you?" he said, pointing at something on his side of the Jetta. "You did this?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," said Roger.

Chet stepped around to Burton's side of the car. He was pointing at a barely visible piece of fingerpoint graffiti in the road dust: King Milo, with the words "I SEE YOU" underneath.

Chet shook his head. "Not me."

"I wasn't talking to you." Burton's eyes were locked on Roger. "Did you do this, you townie piece of shit?"

Chet looked at Roger. His face twitched. He didn't like that one bit.

Roger slowly walked around the car, his boots scuffing across the asphalt. He stopped next to Chet, and only then turned his head from Burton to Milo. Chet thought that Roger looked at Milo with something approaching reverence. "I didn't do that," he said.

"Don't lie to me."

"But I do see you. I see right through you, Doc. You probably don't remember, but we met before. A couple weeks ago. You came into the Kangaroo. Needed the bathroom key something terrible. You might not have seen me. But I saw you."

"What did you see?"

"I saw the enemy."

Burton laughed, a hard sharp bark. "Jesus, you're dramatic."

Roger's face twitched again. "Where is Joanie?"

"Fuck if I know. And if I did, you're the last person I'd tell."

Roger nodded, as if he understood completely. He looked back at Milo – for permission, Chet thought.

Roger lunged for Burton. The professor twisted away, but Roger's hand found the strap of his messenger bag and pulled. The strap ripped free and the bag went flying, spilling its contents in a fan toward Chet.

"Guys, what the fuck?" Alex was out of the Taurus, scratching at his forearm.

Burton had fallen. Roger kicked him in the back and the legs, the steel toes of his Docs landing blows that would undoubtedly be nasty bruises tomorrow. Burton covered his face with his hands, moaning.

Chet knew that he should tell Roger to stop, or even pull him off the professor before things got worse. But that now all felt like it was happening in a different time, in a different place, to different people. Chet's world had narrowed to a single object: a purple UNWG Student Handbook, which had tumbled out of Burton's bag and landed, open, at Chet's feet.

He bent down, picked up the Handbook, and read:

You knew, even from the beginning, that Kenya would betray you. You knew, when she showed up at the Halloween party with the rest of the team, all dressed like the men's basketball team (and the basketball players all squeezed into the Lady Ambassadors' jerseys and shorts), and you were painted green head to toe. She swore she'd told you about the uniform-swap plan, but you had no memory of that. She was so apologetic, so sincere, you couldn't help but believe her. But you should have been more wary.

Chet turned the book over, to see the name stamped in gold on the cover: JOAN AGNES MCKITTRICK. He put the book in his left pocket. With a Handbook in both pockets now, he felt a surge of confidence, like a gunfighter swaggering into town with a six-shooter on each hip.

"Roger," he said, and something in his voice made the townie stop kicking Burton. "It's time to go."

To be continued...