Dumbfounded but hardly surprised, Stevens shuffles back to the table in front of the room, noisily pulls the chair out, and plops down into it. He stares out the window that faces the street; it’s a still December night—no traffic, no sirens, no obnoxious noise or light. Across the street, a string of colored Christmas lights wrapped around a porch railing glow beneath a blanket of thick snow. He’d rather be on the can reading Richard Wilbur. He turns back to the class.

Stevens spots the voice’s owner—a skinny young man in a Bob Dylan t-shirt, skin-tight jeans, and checkerboard-patterned Vans sneakers. Stevens looks down at his class roster.

assortment of faces—some intently focused on their lists, others panicked, staring at blank sheets of paper. A girl near the door smacks her gum and gazes up at the clock.

He strolls into his classroom wearing his uniform—faded black jeans that sag in the rear and a worn fleece pullover. He slings his bag onto the table up front and checks his watch—he’s five minutes late, as usual. The students are already seated, and he surveys the assembly. In the back row a girl scribbles furiously in a fancy journal. Against the far wall a young man in sweat pants and a Minnesota Twins hat snores quietly—his desk empty, except for his head. In the front row Stevens spots Dana, the notorious overachiever, pretending to read Finnegans Wake.

Professor Stevens dislikes donuts; the icing gets stuck in his beard. Fridays he breakfasts at Burger King before heading out to the lake, where he smokes cigarettes on the shore and ignores his wife’s phone calls. He idolizes James Dickey. He’s no good at fiction. The Department Chair’s out to get him