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〃You don't have to meet Curry until 8：30； right？〃 Gil asks Paul； trying to convince him。 〃We'll be done by then。 You can work more tonight。〃
Richard Curry； an eccentric former friend of my father's and Taft's； has been a mentor of Paul's since freshman year。 He has put Paul in touch with some of the most prominent art historians in the world； and has funded much of Paul's research on the Hypnerotomachia。
Paul weighs his notebook in his hand。 Just looking at it； the fatigue returns to his eyes。
Charlie senses that he's ing around。 〃We'll be done by 7：45；〃 he says。
〃What are the teams？〃 Gil asks。
Charlie thinks it over； then says； 〃Tom's with me。〃
The game we're about to play is a new spin on an old favorite： a fast…paced match of paintball in a maze of steam tunnels below campus。 Down there； rats are more mon than lightbulbs； the temperature hits three digits in the dead of winter； and the terrain is so dangerous that even the campus police are forbidden to give chase。 Charlie and Gil came up with the idea during an exam period sophomore year； inspired by an old map Gil and Paul found at their eating club； and by a game Gil's father used to play in the tunnels with his friends as seniors。
The newer version gained popularity until nearly a dozen members of Ivy and most of Charlie's friends from his EMT squad were in on it。 It seemed to surprise them when Paul became one of the game's best navigators； only the four of us understood it； knowing how often Paul used the tunnels to get to and from Ivy on his own。 But gradually Paul's interest in the game waned。 It frustrated him that no one else saw the strategic possibilities of it； the tactical ballet。 He wasn't there when an errant shot punctured a steam pipe during a big midwinter match； the explosion stripped plastic safety casings off live power lines for ten feet in either direction； and might've cooked two half…drunk juniors； had Charlie not pulled them out of the way。 The proctors； Princeton's campus police； caught on； and within days the dean had rained down a spate of punishments。 In the aftermath； Charlie replaced paint guns and pellets with something faster but less risky： an old set of laser…tag guns he picked up at a yard sale。 Still； as graduation approaches； the administration has imposed a zero…tolerance policy on disciplinary infractions。 Getting caught in the tunnels tonight could mean suspension or worse。
Charlie sidesteps into the bedroom he shares with Gil and pulls out a large hiking pack； then another； which he hands to me。 Finally he pulls on his hat。
〃Jesus； Charlie；〃 Gil says。 〃We're only going down there for half an hour。 I packed less for spring break。〃
〃Be prepared；〃 Charlie says； hitching the larger of the two packs over his shoulders。 〃That's what I say。〃
〃You and the Boy Scouts；〃 I mumble。
〃Eagle scouts；〃 Charlie says； because he knows I never made it past tenderfoot。
〃You ladies ready？〃 Gil interrupts； standing by the door。
Paul breathes deeply； waking himself up； then nods。 From inside his room he grabs his pager and hitches it to his belt。
At the front of Dod Hall； our dormitory； Charlie and I part ways with Gil and Paul。 We will enter the tunnels at different locations； and be invisible to each other until one team finds the other underground。
〃I didn't know there was such a thing as a black Boy Scout；〃 I tell Charlie once he and I are on our own； heading down campus。
The snow is deeper and colder than I expected。 I wrench my ski jacket around me； and force my hands into gloves。
〃That's okay；〃 he says。 〃Before I met you； I didn't know there was such a thing as a white pussy。〃
The trip down campus passes in a haze。 For days； with graduation so near and my own thesis out of the way； the world has seemed like a rush of unnecessary motion…underclassmen hurrying to night seminars； seniors typing their final chapters in sweating puter labs； now snowflakes everywhere in the sky； dancing in circles before they find the ground。
As we walk down campus； my leg begins to ache。 For years the scar on my thigh has been predicting bad weather six hours after the bad weather arrives。 It's a memento of an old accident； the scar。 Not long after my sixteenth birthday I was in a car crash that laid me up in a hospital for most of my sophomore summer。 The details are a blur to me now； but the one distinct memory I have of that night is my left femur snapping clean through the muscle of my thigh until one end of it was staring back at me through the skin。 I had just enough time to see it before passing out from shock。 Both bones in my left forearm broke as well； and three ribs on the same side。 According to the paramedics； the bleeding from my artery was stopped just in time for them to save me。 By the time they got me out of the wreckage； though； my father； who'd been driving the car； was dead。
The accident changed me； of course： after three surgeries and two months of rehab； and the onset of phantom pains with their six…hour weather delay； I still had metal pins in my bones； a scar up my leg； and a strange hole in my life that only seemed to get bigger the more time wore on。 At first there were different clothes…different sizes of pants and shorts until I regained enough weight； then different styles to cover up a skin graft on my thigh。 Later I realized that my family had changed too： my mother； who'd retreated into herself； first and most of all； but also my two older sisters； Sarah and Kristen； who spent less and less time at home。 Finally it was my friends who changed…or； I guess； finally I was the one who changed them。 I'm not sure if I wanted friends who understood me better； or saw me differently； or what exactly； but the old ones； like my old clothes； just didn't fit anymore。
The thing people like to say to victims is that time is a great healer。 The great healer is what they say； as if time were a doctor。 But after six years of thinking on the subject； I have a different impression。 Time is the guy at the amusement park who paints shirts with an airbrush。 He sprays out the color in a fine mist until it's just lonely particles floating in the air； waiting to be plastered in place。 And what es of it all； the design on the shirt at the end of the day； usually isn't much to see。 I suspect that whoever buys that shirt； the one great patron of the everlasting theme park； whoever he is； wakes up in the morning and wonders what he ever saw in it。 We're the paint in that analogy； as I tried to explain to Charlie when I mentioned it once。 Time is what disperses us。
Maybe the best way to put it is the way Paul did； not long after we met。 Even then he was a Renaissance fanatic； eighteen years old and already convinced that civilization had been in a nosedive since the death of Michelangelo。 He'd read all of my father's books on the period； and he introduced himself to me a few days into freshman year after recognizing my middle name in the freshman face…book。 I have a peculiar middle name； which for parts of my childhood I carried like an albatross around my neck。 My father tried to name me after his favorite poser； a slightly obscure seventeenth…century Italian without whom； he said； there cou