It had to be. And, on his desk, his unfinished quiz.

Maybe Graham had written something on it a maybe a note that would explain what he'd done. Harper made her way through the scattered chairs and picked up his quiz. A piece of paper slipped out from under it, drifting to the floor. She scooped it up. But, no, it wasn't a suicide letter. Just a bunch of numbers. Was it a cheat sheet? No, not unless the answers were coded. There were no letters, no A, B, C or D for multiple choices. Maybe a phone number. Or a student ID, or a computer password. Well, it didn't matter. She stared at the digits a 16719220702 a wondering if they were the last things Graham had written. But that didn't matter, either.

Harper stuffed the numbers and Graham's quiz into her bulky leather sack and picked up Graham's book bag. Wait. Maybe he'd left a note in it? She set it down, unzipped it, pulled it open.

Inside, she found no note. Just Graham's textbook, his phone, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a Mountain Dew, a vial of prescription pills. And, at the bottom, lying beside three tens and six crisp one hundred dollar bills, a shiny black nine-millimeter handgun.

Harper sat down, staring. A gun? Why did Graham have a gun? And, if he'd wanted to commit suicide, why hadn't he just shot himself? Why did he bother to jump out the window?

It made no sense. Graham seemed too oblivious and gawky to be involved in anything as dark as a gun. She wondered what the pills were for. And the money a it was a lot for a college kid to carry around.

The heat was suffocating, made it difficult to think. And Harper reminded herself it wasn't her responsibility to investigate Graham. The bag and its contents would go to the authorities. She'd call that detective a what was her name? Waters? Harper checked the detective's card. Rivers. Charlene Rivers.

Harper pulled out her cell, made the call, arranged to meet the detective at three. She had almost two hours. Hoping to fill them, she made another call.

'Hey. I was wondering a taking a chance you have an opening today. To see me.' Harper hated to sound needy even to Leslie, her therapist, so she kept the message brief. 'Something happened-' She stopped herself, avoiding a whine. 'Anyhow, let me know?'

Harper hefted her bulky bag on to one shoulder, Graham's gun-laden book bag on to the other, and made her way around the jumbled desks to the door where she stopped, unable to leave yet. Steeling herself, tightening her fists, she turned and made herself look.

It was just a window. Wide open. No fingers grabbed at the sill. No curls dropped from sight. Harper waited, but there was no flashback; all she saw was the empty stillness of framed glass and painted wood.

Letting out a breath, she turned off the fan and the lights and left. Halfway down the steps, her phone beeped a text message from Leslie. 'CU 4 p.m.'

Harper stood outside White Hall with nowhere to go. Almost two hours until she was to meet Detective Rivers, three until her appointment with Leslie. She felt like calling a friend, but, in truth, not many were around. Even before Iraq, she hadn't had a huge social circle, preferring small intimate groups to crowds. But since her return, she'd kept even more to herself, uncomfortable with most people unless she had to perform a designated role a like instructor. Maybe it was her damaged leg, but probably it was deeper. The war, what she'd seen and done, had changed her. Harper felt different from 'civilians'. Well, except for Hank.

Hank wasn't like other people; he'd been in Iraq a a consultant. He understood. But apart from Hank, Harper had spent the last three years primarily in her own company, except for a few close friends. But most of them were gone for the summer. Janet and Dan were in Italy, Ruth in Maine. Ethan and Cathy on a dig in Belize, and Vicki and Trent a supposedly her closest friends a had been scarce since Hank's fall. Before the accident, Trent had wandered into their home as easily as his own, and Vicki had come over daily for morning coffee. But not lately. Harper hadn't talked to them in days. Possibly weeks.

So, lugging Graham's book bag and her own leather sack, Harper wandered the quad, alone. Ignoring the ache in her leg, she followed the path to her favorite spot, the Suspension Bridge, and crossed it halfway, stopping to gaze down into the gorge, at the greenery bursting from its steep rock walls. And the rushing stream at the bottom, slowly, patiently carving its way through rock.

Harper loved this view; it was the opposite of the desert but had the same effect. The stream gave perspective, demonstrated how small and fleeting life was, how time and nature went on despite human concerns, oblivious to suicides or injuries or even wars. After a while, calmer, she turned and backtracked, crossing campus the other way, towards College Town. From there, she kept moving, wandering along Dryden Road down to Eddy Street and up again. She walked for miles, ignoring the burn of her leg muscles, passing head shops, coffee houses, pizza parlors and bars, noticing none of them. Harper focused only on her body's motion. One foot after another, sweating, lugging heavy bags, Harper walked until she was light-headed and thirsty. Only then did she realize that, although she'd gone in a roundabout way, all along she'd been heading back toward Hoy Road, to the only place she really wanted to be a the Neurological Center. And Hank.

Now that she had a clear destination, she picked up her pace. She was going to see Hank. Her Hank. She pictured their first meeting in Iraq, at a reception for civilian contractors and consultants. She'd been on duty, but Hank hadn't cared; he'd offered her a Martini and tried to pick her up. He'd been swarthy and strong, his dark eyes twinkling when he looked at her, as if seeing her amused him. She'd refused the drink and walked away, thinking him cocky and full of himself. She'd thought nothing of it until she'd run into him again at a briefing. When a colleague introduced them, Hank had grinned, feigned a wince and covered his crotch.

'I've already met the lieutenant. It took her maybe ten seconds to bust my balls.'

Everyone had laughed. Sexism, overt and unashamed.

Harper hadn't blinked. 'Ten seconds? That long?' she feigned surprise. 'I must have been having a slow day.'

Hank had laughed. And hung around. Harper quickly found out that he wasn't just another horny guy with a handsome face. Hank was gutsy and quick, smarter than almost anyone she'd ever met. At thirty-six, he was not only consulting for the army in Iraq; he was also up for tenure as a professor of Geology at Cornell. Hank had changed her view of the world. And herself. With him, she had dropped her guard, had discovered how to love and trust. With Hank, she'd found the confidence to pursue her PhD in Archeology and begin a career. And, with Hank, she hoped to have a child, raise a family. That's why they'd bought the house. That's why they'd been rehabbing it. Again, Harper saw Hank climb the ladder to the roof where Trent was examining shingles.

No. Harper slammed the door on that image, refusing to revisit Hank's fall. Not just his, but Graham's, too. She would think only of this moment. Of Hank. As she walked, her steps seemed to pound out his name: Hank, Hank, Hank, Hank. She walked in rhythm with his name, up the driveway to the massive, ultra-modern Neurological Center, and when the automatic doors whooshed open and the cold of the air conditioners assaulted her, she could still hear it repeating, strong and simple, like a mantra in her head.

Harper stopped for a drink at the water cooler, but, in the suddenly chilled air, her thirst seemed to have died. She signed in and greeted Laurie, the perky receptionist at the front desk, and, wearing her visitor's pass, took the elevator to the third floor where she found that Hank wasn't in his room. The nurse at the desk wasn't Lulu, who worked in the morning, or Sybil, who worked evenings. This one was new; her name tag said Marcy. Marcy seemed reluctant to speak to Harper, eyed her oddly.

'Mr Jennings is off the floor for a procedure,' was all she would say, nothing about what kind of procedure or when he'd be back.

Having nowhere else to go, Harper set her bags on the floor of Hank's room and sat in the reclining chair, waiting, trying not to think. She turned on the television, but the talk shows and commercials annoyed her, so she turned it off and watched the blank pale-green walls, the doors of the built-in pine closet, the view into the white-tiled bathroom. The place was impersonal. Cold. Depressing. Institutional. Well, it was an institution, and Hank wasn't there for the decor. And his stay was only temporary.

Chilly, Harper got out of the chair and on to his bed, pulling up the blanket, trying to recall his bear-like warmth. How long had it been since they'd slept in the same bed? A few minutes? A century?

Aching, she pressed her face into his pillow, searching for his scent, but the pillow smelled sterile, like bleach. There was nothing of Hank in this room, not his wit or his passion, not even his smell.

Harper got out of bed, unable to stay still. She fidgeted with the flowers her mother had sent, removing dead blossoms, pinching off wilting petals. She watered the potted plant from Hank's cousins, removed the withered grapes from Trent and Vicki's ageing fruit basket. She avoided the Godiva chocolates from Dr Hayden, Hank's department chair, and tacked the cards from various colleagues and friends neatly on to the bulletin board. Maybe the room looked cozier now. She sat again, looked around. No, the room was still impersonal, still institutional, just dotted with Hallmark cards. Harper gazed out the window. The sky had darkened; thick clouds had blown in. Maybe there would be a thunderstorm. Maybe the heat would break.

Meantime, she hadn't eaten lunch. And the chocolates looked awfully good. Rich and dark, filled with nougat or caramel or raspberry cream. Maybe she'd have just one. Or two. They were small.

Six chocolates later, she heard voices a an orderly telling the nurse that he was bringing 307 back to his room. 307? That was Hank's room; Hank was back.

Harper's fingers were sticky with melted chocolate. She ran to the bathroom to rinse them, glanced in the mirror. And gasped. Her cheeks were streaked with sweat and mud; her hair mangled and matted. She recalled Marcy, the nurse, backing away from her. Of course she had; Harper would back away from this face, too.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed away soil and sweat marks, smoothed the clumps out of her short blonde hair. Even then, the woman in the mirror looked haggard, disheveled. But the orderly was wheeling Hank's chair into the room; there was no time for major repairs. Harper straightened to her full five foot three-and-a-quarter inches, took a cleansing breath, slapped her cheeks to redden them, and opened the bathroom door, a little giddy, a lot needy. Hank was back. Her Hank. And his big bear-like presence would steady her.

The orderly saw her and smiled. 'Looks like you have company,' he told Hank.

Hank looked around, wide-eyed. He hadn't been expecting anyone. His face was pale and too hollow, but when he saw her, his eyes brightened, laughing. Did she look that funny? He forced himself up and out of the chair, using mostly his good arm and leg, and he stood, off balance but independent, grinning at her.

Harper wanted to run to him but knew better; he was still wobbly. She might knock him over. So she moved slowly, planting a gentle kiss on his mouth.

'I had some free time, so I thought I'd surprise you.' Maybe he's better now, she thought. Maybe this last procedure improved his brain function. Maybe he'll talk.

But Hank stood, silently watching her. So she kept talking. 'It's so hot outside, Hank. Lucky you have air conditioning. White Hall was-' She stopped mid-sentence, recalling how her class there had ended. She blinked, changing the subject.

'The nurse said you were out having a procedure. So I straightened up a little.' Stop chattering, she told herself. Stop feeling compelled to fill the silence. Relax; let him take his time.

Slowly, Hank's lips twisted and his eyes narrowed with fierce concentration. 'Go.' As Harper smiled encouragingly, he forced another word. 'Home.'

Go. Home? Wait. What? He wanted her to go home? Stunned, Harper swallowed air, felt as if she'd been punched.

'You must be tired.' Harper kept her voice cheery. 'I'll go soon. I wanted to see you, but you should rest. I'll come back later.' She forced a smile, tried not to worry her hands.

Hank shook his head, no, and scowled. 'Not not not.' His fist tightened and he pounded the top of the dresser.

Not? Not what? Not come back later? Didn't he want her to visit at all? Why? What had happened? That morning, he'd seemed so positive and affectionate, happy with his oatmeal. 'Hank, what's wrong?' Harper frowned.

'He's just frustrated a I'm sure he doesn't mean it like it sounds.' The orderly took firm hold of Hank's arm to prevent more pounding. Then he led him to the reclining chair. 'Sit down, Mr Jennings. Relax, take a breath, and when you're ready, try again.' He looked at Harper. 'They get this way sometimes. Trying to talk gets them exhausted. He should rest.'

Harper nodded, hating that the orderly talked about her husband as if he weren't there. Then again, maybe Hank wasn't there. The man in the recliner had dark shadows under his eyes, and his thick curls needed trimming. His brows furrowed and he wasn't dashing. He didn't look very much like her Hank at all. Besides, her Hank would never have told her to go home and not come back. Missing the man he'd been, Harper closed her eyes, saw him sliding off the roof. No. Not again.

Hank's mouth contorted; he was working on more words. 'No,' or maybe, 'Now,' he finally formed. 'Go. Home.'

Home. She pictured the rambling half-gutted Victorian house with the steep slate roof. When a how a would she ever manage to stop replaying his fall? Harper went over to the chair, put her arms on Hank's wide shoulders, crouching so her eyes met his. 'It's not very hospitable, Hank, telling me to go home.'

He blinked at her urgently. 'Me. You. Not.'

Right. Harper regretted surprising him. She shouldn't have broken their routine, popping in when he wasn't expecting her. She stood again, determined to remain positive, searching for a light-hearted topic, hoping he'd stop ordering her to leave. Seeing a menu on the top of the dresser, she picked it up. 'What's for dinner tonight? Hmm. Breast of chicken with peach salsa. Balsamic rice. Asparagus. Peach pie. Yum.' Harper felt her face get hot, ashamed of her sing-song tone and feigned happiness. She was talking to Hank as if he were a child. Just because he talked like a toddler in small words and short phrases didn't mean he wasn't still an intelligent adult who probably understood perfectly well what was being said to him.

But it didn't seem to matter what Harper said because, apparently, Hank wasn't listening. He was working his mouth, trying to say something. She waited until, again, he insisted, 'Now. Hoppa. Go.'

She sighed, defeated. 'Fine. I'm going.' She studied his face, his eyes. 'Hank, I love you. I'll be back after dinner.' She kissed his mouth, then his stubbly cheek. She pressed her face there, storing the smell of him and the sensation of his rough whiskers. Then she gathered up her bags and walked out before he could speak again.

But he spoke anyway, loudly. 'Hoppa. Home.' He struggled to form another sound, but Harper was gone and the orderly wasn't listening. 'Me.' Then, he shook his head, no, and added, 'With.'

When the elevator doors opened, they revealed one of Hank's doctors. Dr Ron Kendall's boyish face and fair hair made him look young enough to be a medical student, but, in fact, he was a world-renowned neurosurgeon and researcher. He carried himself accordingly, as if expecting mobs of manic fans to descend on him at any moment. Over the last several weeks, though, Harper had learned to look beyond his superstar attitudes. Dr Kendall was a genius, committed to his patients. His cutting-edge brain-injury work with his partner, Dr Steven Wyatt, was what had convinced her to bring Hank to the clinic.

Dr Kendall flashed a professional nano-smile. 'Harper. How's it going?'

It was merely a conventional greeting. Dr Kendall didn't expect an actual answer. When they arrived at ground level, he waved, 'Take care,' and began to stride away.

'Dr Kendall.' The words spilled out, surprising her. 'Do you have a minute?'

He paused, head tilted, eyebrows lifted, as if considering whether or not he did.

'It's . . . One of my students killed himself today.' Her face got hot. Why had she said that? What was he supposed to do about it?

'Really, that was you? Your class?' Dr Kendall stepped closer and took her arm, led her into a corner of the lobby, sat facing her. 'How awful. I heard about it on the radio. They said a student jumped out a window.'

Harper nodded. The story had spread quickly.

'What a shock, Harper. How are you doing?' He leaned forward, studying her with gentle, hazel eyes. Harper hoped she'd washed all the mud off her face. Dr Kendall put a hand on her arm, and the tenderness of his touch surprised her, particularly after Hank's blunt rejection. Suddenly, tears blurred her vision. Tears? Really? She was a war veteran; soldiers didn't cry. Even so, her eyes were wet. Dr Kendall handed her his handkerchief; she stared at it before taking it. Men still carried handkerchiefs?

'Thank you.' Harper dabbed her eyes.

'Did he say anything? Give a reason?'

'No. Nothing.' Harper was annoyed by her tears. Crying was a sign of weakness, a waste of time. It interfered with clear thinking, accomplished nothing. So, even as Hank's doctor tried to console her, she blew her nose, sat straight and changed her focus, asking about her husband's case.

Dr Kendall blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject. He shifted his position, leaning back and crossing his legs, taking on a more professional demeanor. 'Sorry. What?'

'Is he making any progress?'

He cleared his throat. 'Harper. Both Dr Wyatt and I have discussed this with you-'

'Hank seems unhappy. Frankly, I need to remind myself why he's here. And why he has to go through all these procedures.'

'He's here because we might be able to help him. And, as you know, the procedures help us assess the damage to specific parts of his brain-'

'But how long will it all take? Shouldn't he be improving by now?'

Dr Kendall folded his arms, creating a physical barrier. 'Harper, the answer to your questions is the same as it's been all these weeks: we don't know. Your husband's aphasia affects his ability to form language. It might or might not improve. Meantime, we've started him on speech therapy, and art therapy to encourage alternate outlets for expression-'

'But those are conventional treatments. What about the experimental procedures you talked about. Like electronic stimulation?'

'We're evaluating his eligibility for a variety of experimental treatments.'

Still? How long did it take? Why weren't they moving faster? 'But couldn't you treat him as an outpatient, with him living at home?'

'Harper, we've already discussed this. Outpatient treatment is out of the question. We're dealing with your husband's brain.' Dr Kendall waited, letting his words sink in. 'Having him here is difficult for you, but be patient. We're studying Hank's frontal lobe injuries with varied functional MRIs. The process takes time. And we need to be thorough. You wouldn't tolerate anything less.'

No, she wouldn't. So why was she pestering him? Harper looked away, felt her neck flush.

'Meantime, who knows? Conventional therapies might help, or Hank might experience spontaneous recovery. In either of those cases, we might not need an experimental route.' Dr Kendall glanced at his watch. 'So, are we OK here?' He stood, guiding Harper to her feet. 'I was about to take off.'

'Thank you, Doctor.' She hefted her bags. 'Sorry to be a bother.'

'Not at all.' Dr Kendall gave her a brief, professional hug.

Harper had almost crossed the lobby when she heard him call, 'Harper? Again, deepest sympathies regarding your student.'

The words felt like an assault, reminding her of Graham. She saw him dangling from the window, the look in his eyes. No, she told herself. Stop. Focus on the moment. Don't worry about Hank. Don't think about Graham. Walk. Shoulders up, eyes ahead. She counted her steps: one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Ten more and she'd be out the door. Soon she'd meet the detective. Then she'd see Leslie. She'd get through the day. Somehow.

'Loot?'

Harper stopped. Had someone called to her?

She scanned the lobby. Two nurses waited at the elevators. An orderly pushed a wheelchair past the receptionist's desk. Against the far wall, a bunch of young people, maybe students, hung around the registration window. Wait, wasn't that Larry? And Esoso? And a woman in pink a she had to be Monique. What were they doing there? Was her whole recitation hanging out at the Neurological Center? Of course not. Just three. Still, it was odd. And none of the three had called to her; they were absorbed in conversation, not even looking her way.

'Loot a over here.' Harper turned to the waiting area on her right. Anna sat on a sofa, holding a magazine.

Harper smiled and walked over, aware that the girl had passed out at least twice that day. Maybe she was there to get checked out.

'I thought that was you, but I wasn't sure.' Anna smiled shyly. As always, she looked puffed-up and pasty, like unbaked white bread. She wore no make-up, and her thick eyebrows and black hair emphasized her paleness. Her nose and eyes were red, and she dabbed them with a wadded tissue. Probably she was crying about Graham. Harper couldn't remember Anna and Graham talking or even acknowledging each other; Anna always sat by herself. Still, the death had been a tragedy. A shock. 'I was surprised to see you, Loot. Are you volunteering here?'

Volunteering? 'No. I was visiting a patient.' Why be secretive? Why not say it? 'My husband.'

Anna blinked, surprised. 'Oh. Really? I just assumed. See, a lot of people from Cornell volunteer here. As subjects. For the research.' She nodded toward the students waiting against the wall. 'It's good money. Some of the experiments, all you have to do is sleep. I overheard Esoso saying he makes a hundred dollars a night.'

'Seriously?' Harper wondered if she made that much teaching, couldn't do the math. 'So, are you a volunteer?'

'Me?' Anna's eyes shifted, looked at the wall. 'Oh, no. I'm a I'm not eligible.' She wiped her eyes. More tears for Graham?

'Are you OK, Anna?'

'Sure,' she sniffed. 'I'm just narcoleptic.'

Harper blinked, confused.

'It's a sleeping disorder.'

Harper nodded. She'd heard of it, began to understand.

'Basically,' Anna went on, 'I fall asleep when I get upset or stressed.'

Narcolepsy. So that was why Anna often slept in class. And it was why she'd passed out on the quad.

Anna's eyes filled up. 'My doctor at home in Utica recommended this clinic. They have a whole sleep department. So my parents had me transfer.' She pressed the tissue to her nose, and her voice broke. 'God, Loot, what happened today? I don't get it. It was so . . . out of nowhere.'

'I know.'