The packing tape squealed as Professor Augie Sorenson ran the roll over the flaps of the last box containing the odds and ends from his office. His promising career in materials science was teetering on the edge. A man’s voice outside the door said, “Found it, thank you.”

A stern-looking young man entered, displeasure writ large across his face, the look quickly wiped away and replaced with a toothy smile. Augie used this tactic himself: the dissatisfaction made one appear discerning, and the smile charmed the viewer into thinking a bond was being forged.

“Oh. Excuse me,” the younger man said. “Ruthie didn’t say you – ”

“I’m just about to leave,” Augie said, snipping off the tape. He offered his hand. “Augustus Sorenson. Hello and good-bye.”

“Oh. Yes. I’m James Ignatius. Good-bye and… good luck.”

Good luck. Augie passed his hand quickly across his mouth, hoping to cover the sneer that he felt forming. Pity—he couldn’t stand pity from this upstart, this parvenu. Ignatius was the newly hired tenure-track professor brought in to replace Augie, who had failed – yes, failed, no sense sugar-coating this – to gain tenure. Tenure was what the game was all about. Tenure meant a permanent position, with benefits and job security and the imprimatur of a top-notch university to attract healthy research grants. Augie nodded curtly and left the room, carrying his last box with two hands, as if it were the Ark of the Covenant, instead of a cardboard Gilbey’s Gin box containing two mugs, stationery supplies, a 26-oz bottle of SoCo, and Billy’s tangerine silk scarf.

Augie strode down the corridor. Damn, he shouldn’t have wasted time sorting files – he should have dug up the whole bog, carted it home and sorted it there. But it was also the secretary Rookmanie’s fault – she had been deliberately vague about the arrival of the new faculty member. Plus, there were interruptions. The IT guy, to decommission Augie’s desktop computer. The HR flunky, to sign off. And Augie’s grad students, to wheedle glowing letters of reference from him so they could transfer to another supervisor, possibly Professor Ignatius.

Augie’s grip on the box tightened as he walked, composing. To whom it may concern, So-and-So my former graduate student stayed with me on the deck of the Titanic, carrying out his assigned experiments, even as the ship went down. As loyal and thick-witted as they come.

Before he reached the elevators, Augie slowed down, checking if the coast was clear. Any sighting of Rookmanie or soon-to-be-former colleagues and he would duck into the men’s room. He’d often used this ploy to avoid being suffocated by oversize egos. Or too many prying questions, in the case of Rookmanie.

Augie pressed the Down button and a thought crept along the base of his neck, like a pet crow ready to peck. Oh shit. How could he forget that? Nausea passed over him. His god-damn diploma. Not just any mass-produced diploma from some redbrick college, but a lovely thick parchment from University of Oxford, with its triple-crown open-book coat of arms and Dominus illuminatio mea, the spritz of Latin gracing the page. His name and doctoral degree prominently on it. He’d had the diploma professionally matted and framed in mahogany. How could he have forgotten that?

He could come and pick it up another day – but that, he realized, would involve Rookmanie. She was slyly vindictive, he had discovered on day one, when he overheard her mocking his ineptitude with the ceiling fan controls. Forgetting his own diploma – the most glorious of all diplomas in the department – would be a lasting symbol of his stupidity.

Whereas, if he went back to the office right now, Ignatius would barely be there. One academic tended to be sympathetic to another’s absent-mindedness. After weighing the two scenarios, later versus now, Augie retraced his steps. He would just blast through it.

Knock-knock. “Ahem, I say,” Augie said, using the stern-then-smile tactic.

Looking up from his laptop, Ignatius raised an eyebrow.

Augie did a double take. The office looked different already. The overhead fluorescent was off and daylight came in slantwise from the partially open window that looked onto a quadrangle, where once, he had seen Billy romping through piles of autumn leaves, her nose red and pinched, her jacket undone, tangerine scarf fluttering like an oversized leaf at her throat. The new guy had already turned the desk at right angles from how Augie always had it. The nerve of him. Augie had barely left the room and made it to the elevators before the interior was being put in a blender.

“Oh hey. Glad you’re back,” Ignatius said. “We didn’t get a chance to speak.”

“Oh, I’m just back for this… I won’t disturb you further. I’m sure you’ve got a busy day ahead.”

“We met once before – at the symposium honoring Jack Sprott.” Ignatius rose from his chair and approached his visitor.

“Oh, of course,” Augie said, feeling wrong-footed. “I thought you looked familiar.” Close-trimmed beard, receding hairline, white skin, glasses: the man was virtually indistinguishable from three-quarters of the conference attendees.

“You contributed a great chapter to the published proceedings,” Ignatius said.

A great chapter? Augie recoiled from the hyperbole. He had co-authored a chapter with other Sprott collaborators, and the final version was dry sponge-cake written by a committee of six. “Why, thank you,” he said.

Ignatius paused long enough to invite similar flattery.

Augie frowned: had Ignatius presented anything? He drew a blank. He glanced distractedly around the bookshelf – and recognized the garish yellow-red book, the Sprott Symposium Proceedings.

Ignatius pulled it out and it fell open to a single-author paper with “James Ignatius” across the top.

“My, my, quite a feather in your cap,” Augie said. Given the man’s youth, the intensity of academic competition, and the stature of the universities’ researchers, being sole author on a chapter was a mark of prestige.

“Would you like a copy?”

“No thank you, I have my own copy.”

“Oops, I forgot. Of course you do.”

Augie grimaced. What a pathetic hotshot: you even have to brag to me, the lowest of the low. Augie, too, had once been the golden boy. He felt a twinge of pride that he had stuff to brag about – but did not.

“Look, we ought to do lunch,” Ignatius said.

“Sure,” Augie said. A vague, false promise to meet in the future – this was the best way to handle lunch invitations. It was only Billy he had trouble saying no to. With her big, expressive eyes. Her deer-like startle. She used to drift in and out of his office that year, a question on her lips, sometimes about the course work. Sometimes about life. He took her questions seriously and this had inflamed her interest in him.

And then, well.

Ignatius opened his electronic calendar and said, “I’m free next Tuesday – how’s that sound?”

“Sorry, not next week – I’m away,” Augie said. He’d had no such plans, until the moment Ignatius put him on the spot. He would go help his brother shingle the garage—yes, that’s what he’d do. Julius lived an irregular life and never asked why Augie showed up when he did. Like that time, a month after Billy had finished taking his course and moved on, when he glimpsed her in the quadrangle, holding hands with a lanky young man. Augie found himself at Julius’s place, dropping by to rebuild a lawnmower and chew the fat about “romantic temptation.” Menial labor, the best way to forget one’s sorrows.

“When you get back, then,” Ignatius said. “Send me an email.”

Persistent bugger. “Sure. I’ll have a better idea of my schedule.”

“You see, I owe you one,” Ignatius said, pointing and clicking. “You picked up my tab that night at the Grad House – after the symposium shut down.” He chuckled. “You don’t remember? Ha ha. We were all a little sozzled.”

Augie remembered a dozen of them had gone for a drink-up afterward. He was in a newly generous period, having just bagged a hundred-thousand-dollar grant for his research on surface corrosion of solar cells. The unspoken rule was the winner should buy a celebratory round for all. Augie waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, piffle… mists of time… forget it.”

He would go home now and book a Florida timeshare for the next month so he could legitimately get out of lunch obligations with this pushy stranger. Without, of course, being seen to be running away, tail between his legs. After all, he had to kickstart this whole job-search thing. He suffered vertigo looking into the crater of Mount No-Tenure. And this asshole Ignatius was oblivious to it. “Look, I ought to get going,” Augie said. “I just came back for this.” He pointed to the diploma. “Ha-ha, don’t know how I could forget this good old Oxford scrap of paper.”

“It becomes part of the backdrop, doesn’t it.” Ignatius moved forward to help Augie.

“That’s fine,” Augie said, his tone of voice a warning. “I can handle it.” He lifted it from the hook, leaving bare wall.

Ignatius stepped back. “Oh my, that is strange.”

“What? The dust?”

Ignatius ran his palm over the wall where Augie’s diploma had been. “It’s bare plaster. Not even primed.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know – primer? The undercoat before painting?” Ignatius said. “Come, stand here – you can see the difference in this kind of light if you stand just so…”

“Oh. I see.” Augie shrugged. The color of the plaster, a light gray, was visible in that half-light of the office. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Looks like wall repair,” Ignatius said. He sat down comfortably in his big chair.

“Perhaps.” Augie managed a small chuckle. “This office was due to be painted when I moved in five years ago.” He pointed to small scrapes around the electrical outlet. “I’ve done my share of scratches,” he said, running his fingers over the wounds. Confessing to the obvious damage. Staying mum about the big one. He balanced the framed diploma on his taped-up box and turned to the door.

Leaving the office, take two.

It was that slantwise light coming in that made the repair so damn visible. The low light reminded him of the rainy day when Billy, drenched from a sudden shower, shirt plastered against her nipples, had stopped by. She had caught him looking.

Ignatius interrupted his reminiscence. “Any idea where to… next?” He laced his fingers together and hooked them over his knee, like he was settling in for a spell of banter. “Whether it’s industry or academe, I have lots of contacts I could pass along.”

“As you know, the season for academic appointments is closed,” Augie said. “So – industry.” The problem was, no company was doing research like his—only academic institutions.

“You never know. Sometimes – well, accidents, illness – a sessional lecturer is needed right away,” Ignatius said. “So you may be back as a substitute lecturer.”

The pay for substitutes was peanuts—and most significantly, his research would not be funded. It was a slap in the face. “Ha ha, what, is this a job interview?” Augie used his hearty laugh. He shifted the box until the mugs clinked.

“To make it plain, Augie, I’m suggesting an exchange,” Ignatius said, his seriousness a damp blanket to Augie’s laugh. “I’m offering to do my utmost – calling in favors from my extensive network – in exchange for getting a brain-dump from you about the pitfalls here. I just want to avoid the, you know, landmines.” He stared levelly at Augie, whose hands were unpleasantly moist.

“Pitfalls? Landmines?” Augie said. “Well, for starters, the secretary’s name is Rookmanie, not Ruthie,” He wanted to describe her as passive-aggressive but didn’t. Maybe it’s just me.

“Noted.” Ignatius wrote a Post-it note with her name. Exactly what Augie had done five years ago.

“And the lecturing – well, the acoustics here suck,” he said. “Tell them you want a mic.”

“What else?”

This guy’s insatiable. “Look, don’t trouble your contacts on my behalf,” Augie said. “I plan to work abroad.”

“Germany, Israel, Japan – those have the top research labs for materials science. I have excellent contacts in each country.” Ignatius leaned forward.

Through the window, Augie saw two men in the quadrangle, exiting the faculty club, deep in conversation. They slowed their pace and the older man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Remember, you simply must… if all else fails… at the very least.

He could hear the soft cooing of his favorite bird, the mourning dove. He saw the bird, as plump-chested as a pigeon, but with a long, pointed tail, perched on the mulberry. There was one thing he would have done differently.

His career was quietly ambitious, research-focused. He had achieved a fine balance in teaching – never being so bad as to incite the ire of students, nor being so charismatic as to incite the envy of colleagues. His research received genuine praise, was replicated, and extended by others. It would improve solar panel efficiency—four, five years from now. Citations of his research were frequent. He’d thought that would be enough. So he had considered the promotion from junior untenured to full professor was a given.

And then, there was the horrible week. It began with a notice of cutbacks. “Our research goals are pivoting toward newer initiatives” blah blah blah. The use of “pivot” was a sign that corporate types had fastened themselves to the heads of the decision-makers and sucked out their brains. Forget basic research; the corporate types wanted stuff that could be monetized within two years.

And then, Billy’s visit. After not seeing her for months. She had staggered into his office, her eyes glassy, her lips purple and chapped.

“Billy?” Augie said, suddenly disoriented. Her visit was so unexpected—was it a waking dream? The old heartbreak twisted his ventricles again.

“I’ve got the flu,” she said in a raspy voice. “But look, I needed to tell you Daddy found out about us. I’m real sorry.”

Augie closed the door. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for us. I saw you were interested in a boy closer to your age—and I felt the madness had to end.” He paused. “Did you tell your dad we had ended it?”

“Thing is,” she said, “I’m the dean’s daughter.”

“What! I had no idea…why didn’t you say anything?” A stupid question. Of course she wouldn’t have mentioned it.

She brushed off the family connection: “I go by my mom’s name. I want to succeed because of me, not Daddy’s name.”

Augie took a step back. He shook his head. “That is so… you.” Proud. Independent. Defiant.

Billy had left soon after, and in the widening silence, Augie came to realize the full weight of her words. No sense going to the dean to apologize (“I didn’t know you had such a beguiling daughter”). The dean prided himself on being impartial, “above the fray,” not swayed by schmoozing or personal connections. (“We are a meritocracy.”)

But a daughter getting involved?

Late on the Friday of the most horrible week of his life, he received a letter from the dean. “The tenure-granting committee has reviewed your application,” it read. “We regret to inform you…”

The next thing Augie knew, he was extricating his fist from the drywall. His hand felt like chilli sauce had been poured into the marrow of each finger bone.

Hours later, he crawled into bed, his right hand curled around a bag of frozen peas and wrapped in a pillowcase. Saturday morning, he went to his office with a pot of drywall goop and a plastering spatula. He had left the goop to dry all day and had come in on Sunday with sandpaper and primer. But Rookmanie had been in the office, working to deadline, and Augie knew the primer had a smell.

The mourning dove cooed again. The two men from the Faculty Club reached the Newton Building and went inside. Augie hadn’t known Billy was the dean’s daughter – a fact Rookmanie had conveniently kept from him. A fact no one in the department had thought to mention. If only he could wind back time.

Ignatius came and stood beside him at the window, straining to see what was absorbing Augie so completely.

“I’ll miss these mourning doves,” Augie said. He turned to the new guy. “Actually, I’ve decided to stay in town. I’ll take you up on your offer of contacts. And… may I use your phone? I have someone I need to call right away.”