Ellie walked quickly up the dorm stairs with her shampoo and other bath crap in a cracking plastic carryall. The women’s bathroom on her floor was full, and anyway she preferred the showers one floor up. The stairs were cold and grim, fluorescent lights and concrete with the occasional bit of graffiti, written in small letters. There was a bit of Poe: “Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears,” and while she thought she was overemotional, the quote made her sad as she ran her fingers along the wall day after day. She always wondered who had written it and had they survived Princeton and were they now happy.

She heard the slam of the heavy metal door upstairs, footsteps, and then saw him: Amos Cullen. Ugh. Why now, in her bathrobe?

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