Lost track of Dutch.”Clint Callahan was a quiet man. For a New Yorker. He let the conversation come to him. Unless he was in full pussy-pursuit. Bas...cally, he didn’t bite people on the ankle to get their attention. Neither did I. Not usually... “Winter, I’m listening to the Stanley Brothers. ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’.”“I don’t think I know them.”“Saturday Night is secular bluegrass. Sunday is gospel. Mournful mountain music; Weltschmerz almost.”“Want to de-Mensa that for me?”Pilar. This is going to be fun.”“I know I could use a break from classes,” Melody said, her face twisting. “Ugh, I swear I don’t want to hear another lecture on post-modern theory of this or that. Let’s just fuck.”I laughed as we made it to the second floor. A passing teacher, a tall Black woman with a mini-afro, glanced at us. I nodded at her then said to Melody, “Things were simpler when we were students here.”“They were definitely wilder, Clint,” Melody said.The woman looked over her shoulder at us. More

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