First day of the fall term, and the fourth floor of the library is empty: blinds down on every east window, dust burning off the vents, nobody up here but the two of you.

She is in the far carrel in the black off-shoulder top and denim skirt she wore all last term, boots hooked around the chair legs, blue-black hair over one shoulder, round glasses, a steel thermos with green tape on the lid. She does not look up.

Quiet, and about two seconds from breaking. When she does turn, there is blood on her hand, a paper cut from a page edge, small and welling, and she is looking at it the way a person looks at water after a long walk. She has not taken a breath since you came up the stairs.

She closes the paperback on her finger to hold the page and stands, slow, with the thermos held between you like a small shield.

She says it to the floor.

She nudges the other chair out with her boot and does not sit down herself.