Dick was interrupted from his pleasures by the sound of screams. The amorphous woman-shape in his mind's eye had resolved itself into the form of Holly the RA, who before she was an RA had spent at least one night in Wintertree 79 – a night that he had spent much as he was spending this morning, trying to remain as quiet as possible on the loft's uppermost level. Chet hadn't realized that Dick was in the room, and still didn't know. Holly was all Dick's today. But when she opened her mouth, only screams came out.

The screaming was followed by a frenetic scrambling, and then the thud of a body impacting a surface, and a pained groan. Dick leaned out over the edge of the loft to investigate. Tim was sprawled out face down on the platform in front of 79A's door in just his underpants.

"Put your pants on, Tim." Dick was one to talk. He pulled up his boxers. The moment, and Holly, were gone.

Tim looked up at Dick, fearful, then threw himself off the platform to the floor and scooted backwards till his back hit the door. "Who is that?" he shouted. He pointed with a shaking hand toward the door to 79A, a third of the way up the wall. "Who the hell is that?"

Dick crawled over to the end of his platform and looked down. Tim's roommate was standing in the doorway, perplexed. Dick said, "That's, uh..."

"Neal," said the roommate.

"That's your roommate, numbnuts. Neal. Put your pants on. And stop making so much fucking noise at eight in the morning."

Tim sprang to his feet. "It's eight o'clock? Shit. Shit shit shit." Tim climbed back up the rope ladder and pushed past Neal into 79A.

Stupid fucking freshman get your shit together

Dick swung down from his private area and crossed over to the breakfast nook. From there he could see Chet's empty bed. From the looks of it, Chet hadn't been there all night. Dick measured out some coffee into the little single-serving coffeemaker he found at the flea market last year and poured in some water.

"Dick." Neal was still standing there in the doorway, looking up at Dick. "Any plans tonight?"

"I'm not going on a date with you."

"No, that's... I was thinking of inviting some people over tonight. For the premiere of Dragonstar."

"The fuck is Dragonstar?"

"It's a new science-fiction show. About Vikings in space. The creator went to school here."

"Do what you want, man. I'm not the cops."

"No, I mean, you're welcome to join us."

"Yeah, we'll see." What was it with the goddamn dorks always trying to get Dick to watch their dork shit? There was a new South Park on tonight anyway.

Tim, finally dressed, barreled past Neal, down the rope ladder and out the door.

Dick dropped two strawberry Pop-Tarts into the toaster. "Hey," he said, "what was he freaking out at you for?"

"I don't know," said Neal. "He woke up, like, all of a sudden. I asked him if he wanted some tea. He looked at me funny, like he'd never seen me before. And then he just started screaming, and he tripped while he was trying to run out of the room."

"What were you, jerking off in front of him?"

"What? No, I..." Neal turned bright red. This was fun. "I just told you, I offered him some tea."

"I know you're new here. But here's a piece of advice. Don't jerk off in front of your roommate. Or if you do, wait until you're sure he's asleep, and then do it real quiet." Making dorks squirm never got old. "But don't think about him while you're doing it. Your brain's going to want to think about him, because he's right there. But don't think about him. Because if you do, he'll know."

Neal went back inside 79A, now that he was self-conscious about jerking off. Dick hadn't interacted much with the kid since he moved in. Apparently he was on that fancy scholarship program that Dick hadn't even bothered to apply to, so he was some kind of mega uber-dork.

As we say in Latin, a dorkus malorkus

An even bigger dork than Tim, who just seemed to be cracking. Not that Dick knew Tim all that well either, but the kid had been extra squirrely since classes started. If he was losing his shit on his roommate less than a week in, no way he was making it through a whole semester. Dick figured they'd be moving a new kid into 79A within a month, tops.

The coffee was finished brewing. He checked the mini-fridge: no milk, no cream. Neither he nor Chet had bothered to go shopping yet. All they had was the same can of powdered creamer they'd used all last year and somehow managed not to throw away. Dick wasn't sure if that shit could go bad, but fuck it. It was probably fine. He started to dump some into his coffee, but as he did his Pop-Tarts popped up. He reached for one, but like always it was too hot and like always it burned his fingers. He jumped and shook his hand and shouted "Fuck!" and the powdered creamer went everywhere, all over the card table in the breakfast nook and even on his face. Some of it went up his nose, and it tickled, and a sneeze started to brew.

You're fucked now

Dick sneezed, and his face exploded.

GODDAMN IT FUCKING FUCK GODDAMN IT

The pain he had been ignoring since Friday, more or less successfully, returned with a vengeance, and it brought friends. They went to work on his nose with bats and clubs and pipes, until there was nothing but a throbbing red pit of pain at the center of his face. "Fuck!" he shouted again. "Fucking fuck!"

Neal poked his head out of 79A. "What happened?"

Neal drove him to the Health Center, but Dorkus Malorkus wouldn't dare miss calculus or whatever. Dick would have to find his own way home.

The pain subsided a little on the drive, with the help of some Advil. As long as Dick didn't think about his nose, he could stand it.

There was one other person in the waiting room at the Health Center, some scrawny pale dirtbag who looked like he should be playing bass for Marilyn Manson. He had a Band-Aid across the bridge of his nose, just like Dick. Dick nodded to him. "What are you in for?"

The pale dude looked up from the Ambassador he'd been flipping through. "I think I got crabs from your mom."

The fuck'd you say about my mom

"Okay." This wasn't the usual order of things. This wasn't how an interaction with a dude like this was supposed to go. "Okay." Then quieter, as Dick picked up a National Geographic and pretended to read: "Asshole."

The dirtbag picked his newspaper back up and opened it to the middle. Dick could just hear him from behind the front page: "Fucking redneck dipshit."

Dick peeked over the top of the Nat Geo to size up the guy. With his dark eyes sunk into purplish bruising, he looked like he was wearing a mask. He looked like he had a few inches on Dick, but he was lighter by probably 50 pounds, at least. He kind of looked like one of those models that everybody was getting so upset over. Heroin chic. Dick had never really understood the big deal. The chicks in those ads looked pretty good to him. And wasn't the whole point of being famous to be able to do whatever drugs you wanted?

The guy had a bandage on his left forearm. It was mostly red and yellow, with only a rim of white around the edges. His arms were covered in tattoos. The usual bullshit: spiderwebs, skulls, stupid tribal designs, some words in that unreadable Ye Olde English font, like Dick's stepdad's friends all had. Nobody ever wrote anything good in that font. Not on their skin, at least.

Dick was pretty sure he could take this dirtbag, if he had to. If he gave him a reason to. This dirtbag looked like he wouldn't be able to help himself. All Dick would have to do is give him a little push.

After ten minutes of waiting and pretending to read, Dick went up to the check-in window. "Can I help you?" said the nurse.

"Well I shore hope so, darlin'." Dick cranked up the drawl to the max. "How long do you reckon it's gonna take to get back to see the doctor? I don't want to be late for Animal Husbandry 'cause today they're showin' us how to castrate a bull. Then I gotta go pick up my sister from the Walmart so she can take my niece to her hip-hop dance class. Little Misty's a pageant girl, see." Dick could feel the dirtbag's dark eyes on him.

"I'm sorry. The doctors try to accommodate each patient as quickly as possible."

Dick pointed an accusing finger at the nurse. "I tell you what, if Misty don't win that North Georgia Junior Carpet Queen pageant, it's y'all's fault."

The nurse rolled her eyes. She'd seen way worse than Dick. "If you could just take a seat, we'll call you when a doctor is available."

Dick dropped back in his seat. The dirtbag was watching him, his eyes glittering with amusement like miniature starfields. Dick gave him the full eye-rolling, head-shaking performance of exasperation. "You believe this shit?"

Dick had served up a big, fat, lazy pitch right down the center of the plate, and the dirtbag couldn't wait to take a swing. He sniggered. "I guess now if little Misty wants to win the Miss Junior Whatever, she's going to have to show the judges some other talent."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying her piece of shit redneck daddy's already taught her everything she needs to know."

Dick rose to his feet, ready for this to go down. "Yeah? Is that the same thing your piece of shit daddy taught you? That how you ended up like this?" He waved an all-encompassing arm in the dirtbag's direction.

The dirtbag lunged out of his chair and caught Dick in the gut, slamming him back into his own chair against the opposite wall. Dick's head hit the wall, setting off a new wave of pain that came to a point at the end of his nose.

Dick thrust his knees into the dirtbag's midsection, trying to hit his crotch. The guy loosened his grip around Dick's waist, and Dick kicked him hard in the knee, knocking him backwards. Dick got back on his feet, and the dirtbag lunged again, swinging his arms wildly at Dick's head. He landed a glancing shot on Dick's nose. Dick staggered back, knocking over a few of the chairs and sending magazines scattering across the floor. Dick felt under his nose, and his fingers came away bloody.

The dirtbag threw himself at Dick and took him to the floor. "Fucking redneck," he said, and he ground his bandaged left forearm against Dick's face. The putrid smell from the wound made Dick gag. He clawed at the dirtbag's arm, and his fingers found a corner of the bandage. He ripped it off, then jammed a thumb into the oozing, black, infected wound.

The dirtbag howled – a pre-verbal animal sound of rage and pain. He rose to his feet and backed away from Dick, tears in his eyes, bent over nearly double, clutching his arm. Dick rolled over and found his feet. He faced the dirtbag, and they stood there for a moment, on shaky legs, waiting for the next move.

"Fucking suplex you," said the dirtbag.

Dick went for his legs, but he couldn't get low enough. The dirtbag caught him, and they locked into a clinch, trying to wrestle each other to the ground. Blood poured from Dick's nose onto the dirtbag's T-shirt. Every part of his body was in contact with some part of the dirtbag's body, their muscles straining against each other, skin sliding against skin. Dick hadn't had that kind of contact with anyone in so long. He wanted more of it. He wanted all of it. Bodies on bodies on bodies.

Then huge arms encircled him. Dick's arms and legs swung uselessly in the air as a beefy male nurse pulled him away from the dirtbag, similarly flailing in the arms of another massive nurse.

"What the hell is going on out here?" The male nurses presented them both to another nurse, an older woman with an incongruous pink streak in her hair. Dick got a whiff of patchouli oil. The woman's eyes landed on Dick. "You're back. You just can't stop getting in fights, can you?"

Dick had no idea what that meant.

The x-ray confirmed what Dick already knew. In the side view the fracture looked like a river on a map, with his skull the land, surrounded by the murky, unknowable depths of his flesh.

"It's definitely broken," said the nurse. Lark, according to her nametag.

No shit it's broken what are you going to DO about it

"Do you really not remember coming in here the other night?" Lark was convinced that she had treated Dick late Thursday night, that he'd told her he'd gotten in a fight.

"I think I'd remember something like that."

Lark took Dick's head in her latex-encased hands and peered into his eyes. He fingers were hard and unyielding, practiced at restraining bodies. "You don't seem to have any signs of a concussion."

"Keep grabbing my head like that and we'll see."

Lark peeled off her gloves, revealing a full assortment of silver rings. A purple stone on her left hand glinted under the fluorescents. Dick felt the flash of light hit his brain like a laser. Not quite déjà vu, but not not déjà vu. "I'll tell you what I told you last week. Keep ice on it. Take some Advil. It'll heal itself."

"Can you prescribe anything stronger than Advil?"

"Not for you." Lark brushed past Dick as she moved to the rolling stool across from the exam table. The amethyst ring flashed, and he got another noseful of the patchouli oil. He raised his hand to cover his nose, but the smell of the dirtbag's infected wound lingered on his thumb. The two odors twined and coiled together until they formed a dense sharp spike that drove itself right through the crack in his nose and into his brain.

I am dead and rotting unburied unloved my master doesn't call my name

Dick felt like he was going to throw up, but the feeling emanated from his head instead of his gut. Mental nausea. After a moment it passed, though his thoughts remained unsettled.

"Now, what I can prescribe for you is some advice. Maybe you should talk to someone."

"You mean a – a what, a psychiatrist?"

"A therapist, yes. This is the second time you've been in a fight – that I'm aware of – in less than a week."

"That goth motherfucker provoked me. And you know he was high. I hope you're not prescribing him any Demerol."

"What about the person who broke your nose? Did he provoke you too?"

"I told you, I don't remember." That whole night was a blur. He remembered going to Weston with Chet, looking for KRÜMMFAUVEN!, being pissed they didn't have it, making a Regicide instead. Maybe he slipped a little something extra into the drink. Maybe he slipped a lot of something extra in there. "So if I was really here, did I maybe tell you who did it?"

"I remember you muttering something about a 'blond cocksucker.' It seemed to me it was someone you just met. Just like today."

Dick couldn't recall any blond cocksucker. At least none that he didn't imagine. "I can't help it if everybody I meet is an asshole."

"Actually, you can. We don't have to be mean. Remember – no matter where you go, there you are."

"What is that, some hippie bullshit?"

"It's Buckaroo Banzai." Lark tucked a loose wisp of pink hair behind her ear and smiled, revealing teeth that had never seen an orthodontist. "Worth seeing, if you haven't."

They fucking saved me a seat

Dick was done with this. He slid off the exam table to his feet, tearing the paper. He twisted to catch the torn corner in midair, ruining the cool decisive exit he was going for. He handed the scrap of paper to Lark.

"Dick," she said, before he could go. "Take this." Lark wrote a number on the scrap and handed it back to him: 7418. "Call this number. Make an appointment. Talk to someone."

Dick crumpled the paper in his fist. "The Health Center number's in the Handbook."

"That's not the Health Center number. Just call it. That's my medical advice."

The trash can next to the door waited, ready to accept the balled-up wad of paper. But Dick put it in his pocket instead.

Dick lingered at Weston until closing, until the food-service workers were upending the chairs onto the tables and shooting him increasingly blatant dirty looks. He didn't want to go back to Wintertree just yet. He wanted to be alone for a few more minutes, in a place that didn't want him.

He pulled the scrap of paper back out of his pocket. He'd already uncrumpled it, already pulled it out of his pocket, stared at it, and put it back in his pocket a dozen times since Lark gave it to him. The idea that he needed to talk to someone was ridiculous. He talked to plenty of people.

"Sir." The voice sounded like a gunshot in the quiet of the empty dining hall. Startled, Dick dropped the phone number on his tray, into a smear of ketchup. A hulking man in a stained white apron loomed over Dick's table, hands on his wide hips. They sent a lifer, not one of the freshmen washing dishes to pay tuition. "Can I bus your tray?" A threat, not an offer.

Dick picked the scrap of paper out of the ketchup and handed over the tray. The guy gave him a pointed look – the kind that said If I have to come back over here... - and carried it away. Dick wiped off the ketchup with a napkin, but it left an orange-red stain over the phone number. He gave it one last look before leaving.

The number was gone. In its place was the word "sanctuary."

Dick lowered the paper. Sitting across the table from him was the outline of a human form, the shape of a man, gold and shining, like the ghost of an Oscar statue. Dick felt a name trying to resolve itself in his mouth, but his tongue couldn't get the shapes right.

He blinked.

The golden shape disappeared. He looked down at the scrap of paper. The number was back – four digits in scratchy ballpoint, and a streak of ketchup residue.

When Dick got back to Wintertree, the lobby was packed. Probably fifty kids, at least, crowded around the TV watching South Park. Not just the usual lobby movie nerds either, though Fedora Boy was occupying his usual seat. On the TV, Cartman yelled "Beefcake!" in his little-fat-boy whine.

"Beefcake!" brayed two dozen dudes in response.

The first two episodes of South Park had been everything Dick had ever wanted in a TV show. He possibly liked it even better than The Simpsons. But something about this scene in the lobby only fortified the walls inside him. All these faces contorted in the blue glow of the big-screen. He was outside the circle, and he chose to remain there. As an outsider he could see how cold and sterile the crude animation was. The construction-paper mountains looked so empty, so sad, tombstones for a community that didn't know it was dead. His stepdad was on a mountain like those, probably, somewhere in the Rockies. "Beefcake!" screamed Cartman, fatter than ever. Dick had to turn away.

The crowd in 79A was smaller, but just as passionate. Dick climbed up the loft to the loveseat and looked into the room. There were about ten people in there – Tim and Neal, some guy who could have been Neal's twin, some other dudes who were probably card-carrying Dorki Malorki as well, and a short little bearded guy who looked like he was in his thirties. A TA or even a professor, maybe. Dick didn't know how the Malorki rolled. And one solitary girl, with a haircut that reminded Dick of what his mom looked like when he was a kid. Chet wasn't among them.