Anna glanced at the office. 'Do you have a minute?'

'Two even.' Harper didn't; she had to prepare a eulogy and an introduction, but Anna seemed nervous, her plump fingers tugging the strap of her book bag. She unlocked her office door. 'Come sit down.'

Anna came in but didn't sit. She stepped closer to Harper, whispering. She looked out the door. 'Loot, I'm scared.'

'It's OK, Anna a don't be scared.' Harper had no idea what was wrong, but she didn't want the girl to collapse again.

Anna chewed a thumbnail, eyes darting.

'Have a seat.'

Anna wouldn't. She paced in small agitated circles, wringing her hands.

'What's on your mind?' Harper glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes until class.

'I heard stuff,' Anna fretted. 'At the clinic.' Her breath was shorter, her voice thinner.

'Anna, calm down. You don't want to go narcoleptic.'

Anna still didn't sit, but she stopped pacing, took long deep breaths.

'Now. Calmly. Explain.'

'I was in the Sleep Clinic, having an episode. And when I have episodes, people forget I'm there. They think I'm asleep, so I become like furniture. Or a potted plant.'

'I'm sure they don't forget-'

'It's called cataplexy. It's like you're stuck somewhere in between awake and asleep. You can't move, no matter how you try. You can't talk or call out. Can't make a sound. You're paralyzed, but you're aware. You're not actually asleep.'

Harper couldn't imagine it.

'But the thing is, you can still hear. During cataplexy, I can't even blink my eyes. I can't make a peep. But I hear everything perfectly.'

'How horrific.' Oops, she probably shouldn't have said that.

'I'm used to it. I've learned to just wait it out.' Anna kept twisting the strap of her book bag.

'So you heard something?'

Anna nodded, eyes wide. 'About Graham.'

Really? 'Go on.'

'Two men were talking. One said Graham died because of stolen drugs.'

Wait. Stolen drugs? 'What?'

'That's what he said. Clear as day. Loot, something bad is going on over there-'

'Anna, don't jump to conclusions. Those drugs didn't necessarily cause his-'

'Wait a you mean it's true? He had stolen drugs on him?'

Lord, why had she said that? 'No, I didn't say-'

'Are you sure, Loot? Because Graham wouldn't do drugs. And he definitely wouldn't steal them.' Anna was beyond pale, her face translucent. Like a big oval moonstone.

Harper grabbed a bottle of water from her mini-fridge. 'Here. Drink this.' She opened the bottle, handed it to Anna. 'Who were the men you heard, Anna? Do you know?'

She swallowed water. 'One was the head of the Sleep Clinic a Dr Wyatt.'

Dr Wyatt? 'Are you sure?'

'Very. I know his voice. He said Graham stole drugs and overdosed on them, and that's why he killed himself.'

'Well. The autopsy will show if that's true.' Harper didn't know what to think. Maybe Anna misheard; hadn't Ron said the drugs were benign? She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes until recitation.

'There's more, Loot.' Anna paused, scrunched her lips. 'They didn't just talk about Graham; they talked about you.'

Harper blinked. 'Me?'

'Dr Wyatt called you "that Jennings woman". He said you knew too much about the "situation" and might make trouble. The other man told him not to worry. He said you'd even help find the stolen drugs.'

What? 'Anna, are you sure that's what they said?'

'Very. Dr Wyatt got mad. "You know what this means? Another dead kid a how many more will there be? It's out of control." The other one tried to calm him down. He said, "Steven, those deaths are not on us. Those kids popped whatever pills they got their hands on. If not on this, they'd have OD'd on something else." He said he'd take care of everything, including you. Dr Wyatt said, "I hope so. Because every minute those pills are out there is a minute too long"-'

'Wait, hold on a second.' Harper couldn't absorb what she was hearing.

'But, Loot, why did he say Graham stole drugs? Or that you'd help find them? Do you know where those drugs are?'

'Of course not.' But she was pretty positive that she knew something else: that the second man in the conversation was Ron Kendall.

Anna's eyes were wide. 'Loot, that man said he'd "take care of you". Don't you get what that means?'

Harper had to smile. 'Anna. This isn't the movies. "Taking care of" somebody doesn't mean feeding them to the fish-'

'But they think you have Graham's stolen drugs. Or that you're able to get them. Don't you see? Dr Wyatt said more people will die . . .' Her eyes rolled.

'Anna.' Harper put her hands on Anna's shoulders, gently shaking her. 'Stay with me here-'

'I can't . . . go back there.' Anna spoke in spurts. 'I have an . . . appointment later. What if they . . . figure out what I . . . know-'

'Sit, Anna. Please. Before you fall.' Harper stood ready to catch her.

Finally, Anna sat.

'Listen. Those men have no idea that you heard their conversation. But even if they did, it's all right. They aren't villains. The second man you heard a he does research at the Center. He's my friend.' But Anna must have misunderstood. Why would Ron tell Wyatt that she could help find the stolen drugs? Or that he'd 'take care of her'. He'd said on the phone that he had a lot to talk to her about, that it was complicated. Clearly, he did, and it was.

But something else nagged at Harper: Larry. When he'd come to her office, he'd said that Graham had been dispensing the drug dosages for his research group. That Graham's drugs were part of their study. But the vial in Graham's bag had been stolen, not part of a study. So which was it? Was Larry trying to find legitimate test drugs or stolen ones? Harper had suspicions but not facts. And there were five minutes until class; the dean would be waiting. She had to leave. 'Anna? We have to go.'

Anna blinked rapidly. 'Loot, I swear. Those people at the Neurology Center a they did something to Graham. I know it. He never would have jumped-'

'Anna.' Harper looked into her eyes. 'Your doctors at the Center are excellent. They aren't going to hurt you.' She was pretty sure she was right.

'OK. Don't believe me. But I'm telling you, something's going on there, and if they find out what I know, I could end up like Graham.' Upset, Anna stood too quickly.

Harper caught her as she fell and held her up, positioning her comfortably on the couch. She was late for class, but, as she hurried down the steps to the Arts Quad, she called Ron on her cell. She had a lot of questions, but Ron wasn't available. Harper got his voicemail, left a message and ran into White Hall, climbed four flights of stairs and rushed into the hallway where the dean waited, scowling.

Class was a jumble of harrumphing by the dean, a brief talk by a grief counselor from Health Services and an unsuccessful attempt by Harper to open a discussion about Graham and his suicide. Despite her assignment, no one had prepared anything and no one volunteered to talk.

'Nothing? Not one of you wants to say anything?'

Fourteen students had shown up; fourteen pairs of eyes diverted from Harper's.

Gwen squirmed. 'It's too personal.'

Pam nodded agreement.

'OK. Then write it down. Use the rest of the hour to write about what happened.'

Shuffling. Chairs scraping the floor. Students settling down to work.

Harper sat at her desk beside the fan. The assignment had nothing to do with Archeology; still, it was important. The group needed to acknowledge their own pain as well as their fallen comrade.

Esoso stared out the window, writing nothing, finally scrawling on his paper, 'Dead is dead. I have nothing to say,' and walking out.

Larry left next. On the way out, he leaned too close. 'Hey, Loot.' His voice was low. 'I wonder if you found that study sheet? You know, the page numbers Graham had?'

'Sorry.' Harper shook her head and took his paper, a jagged, almost illegible composition.

Monique had trouble writing; she said she'd hurt her arm in a fall. The gauze of her bandage was, no surprise, bright pink, matching the rest of her outfit. Monique wrote about a different color, though a the color of blood; about how deep crimson now permeated her visions, even her dreams.

Shaundra's piece described a classroom haunted by the spirit of a troubled, hovering soul. Jeremy's detailed the moment in which Graham's body made impact with the concrete below, describing in graphic detail what occurred to each of Graham's individual body parts. Pam wrote about the incident from a grasshopper's point of view; it was, he'd thought, the end of days.

Kevin was the last to hand in his paper. It was a pencil drawing of an agonized face.

Back in her office, Harper found Anna just as she'd left her. Harper sat at her desk, staring out the window at the heavy clouds blanketing the sky. Even in the middle of the day, the light was dim and bleak. Like her mood. Get up, she told herself. Go out. But she wanted company. No, not just company; she wanted Hank, the pre-accident Hank.

Her office phone startled her.

'You called?' Ron sounded warm and untroubled. Not like a man about to feed her to the fish. 'Everything OK? You're not canceling tonight, are you?'

Tonight? Oh right. Dinner. 'No, nothing that serious.'

'What's up?'

'Not much. Just that I've learned I'm in grave danger because of some stolen drugs.'

'No, really. Why did you call?' Ron sounded impatient.

'I'm serious. Did you by any chance tell Dr Wyatt I'd help you get the drugs back?'

A sigh. 'Harper, you're not making sense. Look, we said we'd talk over dinner. Why don't we wait till then and I'll explain everything.'

'But Graham's pills a they'd definitely been stolen, right?'

'Yes. An entire bin was taken. They were from that bin.'

'And the drug is supposed to help people learn, right?'

Another sigh. 'Yes. It enhances learning and memory, stimulates the frontal lobe.'

'So the pills couldn't cause someone to kill himself, right?'

'What?' Ron stopped to cough. 'Where did you get that-'

'Could they?'

'Of course not. In proper doses, the drug is completely benign. With minimal side effects.'

Harper released a breath. 'And Graham Reynolds a was he a suspect in the theft?'

'Harper, I really don't want to go into this now-'

'I need to know.'

'Yes. He was a suspect. He had knowledge of and access to the bins. But he wasn't the only-'

'He had access because he dispensed the drugs?'

'I'm sorry. What?'

'Graham was the guy who gave his test group their pills-'

'No, no. Our staff gives out the doses, individually. No student dispenses drugs under any circumstances. Where did you get that idea?'

Where? Well, from Larry. Who'd obviously lied. Which probably meant that the drugs in Graham's bag a and the drugs Larry had been looking for a weren't being tested in some study; they were, in fact, the drugs that had been stolen. Which meant that both Graham and Larry had some part in the theft.

'Look, Harper, you understand how sensitive this is, don't you?'

Harper didn't answer. Ron continued talking, but she wasn't listening. She was thinking, staring at the papers stacked on her desk. Larry's illegible scrawl was near the top. She pulled it out, looked at it. Was Larry a drug thief? Just like Graham, he'd had opportunity a he was involved with the trials, had access to the bin. Maybe Larry, not Graham, was the thief. Maybe he'd been selling the pills. And Graham had been a customer, and the money in his book bag hadn't been for rent but for drugs. Or maybe they'd been stealing and dealing together, room-mates and business partners? Harper recalled the brash way Larry had leaned across her desk, breathing into her face, asking for those numbers, even though she'd already told him she didn't have them.

The numbers. Why were they so important?

'Hey, Ron.' She interrupted, had no idea what he'd been talking about. 'Do you know anything about a list of numbers?'

'Numbers?'