December moved quickly.
The semester ended the second week. Finals done, papers submitted, the campus emptying again in the familiar pre-holiday migration.
Second time. Senior year version.
Everything the same as last December and entirely different.
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Prisca was going to Portland.
She told me Monday evening, packing with the efficient calm she brought to logistics.
"Wednesday morning," she said. "Back the twenty-eighth."
"Same as last year," I said.
She looked up. "Is it?"
"Almost exactly."
She paused in the packing. Seemed to be thinking about the distance between last December and this one.
"Different year," she said quietly.
"Very different," I agreed.
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I was going to Chicago.
My mother had called in November asking directly — not suggesting, asking. The specific p
