The classroom after hours was a different kind of place.
Without the students, without the overhead lights and the performative shuffle of papers, Room 214 became something quieter and more honest. The only light came from the banker's lamp on Nathan's desk — a warm amber pool that reached just far enough to matter — and from the pale blue wash of the Pasadena night pressing in through the tall south-facing windows. Somewhere on the quad below, the wind moved through the jacaranda trees, slow and directionless, like it had nowhere to be.
The Winter Dance had ended at nine.
It was nine-thirty now, and Nathan was still at his desk, working through a stack of essays he'd been putting off for three days, because the alternative was going home. He'd heard the music from the gymnasium two flo
