They can't see us here, Gil whispers, out of breathe, clicking on his flashlight. Another long tunnel retreats out of sight, toward what I take to be the northwest of campus.
What now? Charlie says.
Back to Dod, Gil suggests.
Paul wipes his forehead. Can't. They padlocked the exit.
They'll watch all the main grates, Charlie says.
I begin pacing down the westward tunnel. Is this the fastest way northwest?
Why?
Because I think we can get out near Rocky-Mathey. How far is it from here?
Charlie hands the last of our water to Paul, who drinks it eagerly. A few hundred yards, he says. Maybe more.
Through this tunnel?
Gil considers for a second, then nods.
I got nothing better, Charlie says.
The three of them begin to follow me into the dark.
For some distance we continue through the same passageway in silence. Charlie trades flashlights with me once my beam grows too weak, but keeps his focus on Paul, who seems more and more disoriented. When Paul finally stops to lean on a wall, Charlie props him up and helps him on, reminding him not to touch the pipes. With each step, the last drops of water plink in empty bottles. I begin to wonder if I've lost my bearings.
Guys, Charlie says from behind us, Paul's fading.
I just need to sit down, Paul says weakly.
Suddenly Gil directs a flashlight into the distance, bringing a set of metal bars into view. Damn it.
Security gate, Charlie says.
What do we do?
Gil crouches to look Paul in the eye. Hey, he says, shaking Paul's shoulders. Is there a way out of here?
Paul points at the steam pipe beside the security gate, then makes an unsteady downward swoop with his arm. Go under.
Scanning the pipe with my flashlight, I see insulation worn away on the pipe's underside, just inches above the floor. Someone has tried this before.
No way, Charlie says. Not enough room.
There's a release latch on the other side, Gil says, pointing to a device by the wall. Only one of us has to go. Then we can open the gate. He lowers his head to Paul's level again. You've done this before?
Paul nods.
He's dehydrated, Charlie says under his breath. Does anyone have some water?
Gil hands a half-empty bottle to Paul, who greedily drinks it down.
Thanks. Better.
We should go back, Charlie says.
No, I say. I'll do it.
Take my coat, Gil offers. For insulation.
I put a hand on the steam pipe. Even through the padding, it's pulsing with heat.
You won't fit, Charlie says. Not with the coat.
I'm okay without it, I tell them.
But when I lower myself to the floor, I realize how tight the opening is. The insulation is scalding. On my stomach, I force myself between the floor and the pipe.
Exhale and pull yourself through, Gil says.
I inch forward and force myself flat-but when I reach the tightest section, my hands find no grip, only puddles of ooze. Suddenly I'm pinned beneath the pipe.
Shit, Gil growls, falling to his knees.
Tom, Charlie says, and I can feel a pair of hands at my feet. Push off me.
I force my feet off his palms. My chest scrapes hard against the concrete, and one thigh glances the pipe where the insulation is gone. Reflex jerks it away just as I feel the lancing-hot pain.
You okay? Charlie asks, when I shimmy through to the other side.
Turn the latch clockwise, Gil says.
When I do, the security gate unlocks. Gil pushes it open, and Charlie follows, still supporting Paul.
You sure about this? Charlie asks, when we advance into the darkness.
I nod. A few steps on, we arrive at a crude R painted on a wall. We're approaching Rockefeller, one of the residential colleges. As a freshman, I dated a girl named Lana McKnight who lived there. We spent much of that winter sitting by a lazy fire in her dorm room, back before the flues on campus were shut for good. The things we discussed seem so distant now: Mary Shelley and college Gothic and the Buckeyes. Her mother had taught at Ohio State, like my father. Lana's breasts were shaped like eggplants and her ears were the color of rose petals when we stayed too long by the fire.
Soon I can hear voices coming from overhead. Many of them.
What's going on? Gil asks as he draws near the source.
The manhole cover is just over his shoulder.
That's it, I say, coughing. Our way out.
He looks at me, trying to understand.
In the silence I can hear the voices more clearly-rowdy ones; students, not proctors. Dozens of them, moving around our heads.
Charlie begins to smile. The Nude Olympics, he says.
It dawns on Gil. We're right under them.
There's a manhole in the middle of the courtyard, I remind them, leaning on die stone wall, trying to catch my breath. All we have to do is pop the lid, join the pack, and disappear.
But from behind me, Paul speaks up in a hoarse voice. All we have to do is undress, join the pack, and disappear.
For a moment there's silence. It's Charlie who starts to unbutton his shirt first.
Get me out of here, he says, choking out a laugh as he pulls it off,
I yank off my jeans; Gil and Paul follow. We begin stuffing our clothes into one of the packs until it's bulging at the seams.
Can you carry all that? Charlie asks, offering to take both packs again.
I hesitate. You know there'll be proctors out there, right?
But by now Gil is beyond doubt. He begins to climb the rungs.
Three hundred naked sophomores, Tom. If you can't make it home with that kind of diversion, you deserve to be caught.
And with that, he forces open the cover, letting a gust of freezing air cascade into the tunnel. It rejuvenates Paul like a balm.
Okay, boys, Gil calls down, looking back one more time. Let's get this meat to market.
My first memory of leaving that tunnel is how bright it suddenly became. Overhead lamps lit the courtyard. Security lights fanned the white earth. Camera flashes pulsed across the sky like fireflies.
Then comes the rush of cold: the howl of the wind, even louder than the feet stomping and the voices roaring. Flakes melt on my skin like dewdrops.
Finally I see it. A wall of arms and legs, spinning around us like an endless snake. Faces pop in and out of view-classmates, football players, women who caught my eye crossing campus-but they fade into the abstraction like clips in a collage. Here and there I see strange outfits-top hats and superhero capes, artwork painted across chests of every description-but it all recedes into the great, rolling animal, the Chinatown dragon, moving to hoots and shouts and flashbulb firecrackers. Come on! Gil shouts.
Paul and I follow, mesmerized. I've forgotten what Holder is like on the night of the first snowfall.
The great conga line swallows us and for a second I'm lost even to myself, pressed tight against bodies in all directions, trying to keep my balance with a pack on my shoulders and snow underfoot. Someone pushes me from behind and I feel the zipper burst. Before I can shut it, our clothes have spilled out the top. In an instant all of them are gone, trampled in the mud. I look around, hoping Charlie's behind me to catch what's left, but he's nowhere to be seen.
Breasts and buttocks, buttocks and breasts, a young man somewhere is chanting in a cockney accent, as if he were selling flowers on the set of My Fair Lady. Across the way I see a fat junior from my lit seminar sneaking into the crowd of sophomores, belly rocking. He's wearing nothing but a sandwich board that reads free test drive on the front and inquire within on the back. Finally I spot Charlie. He's already made his way to the other side of the circle, where Will Clay, another member of the EMT squad, is wearing a pith helmet flanked with beer cans. Charlie snags it off the top of his head and the two begin chasing each other through the courtyard until I can't see them anymore.