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He was always studiously reading what appeared to be essay papers through round-lensed, rimless spectacles. Lydia referred to him in her mind as ‘Th... Professor’. Every Friday she would board the bus, walk to the back, and sit in the double-seat directly across the aisle from him. Occasionally, he would look up and smile somewhat nervously at her before returning his attention to the papers he was holding. Lydia would return his smile and then look away. The bus stopped. Its silver door hissed. No prints. Shit. Look, we oughta scour the woods. Gotta be some fibers, maybe he dropped something." He, thought Thang. How can we be sure? He remembered his mother, small, fine boned, teaching him martial arts. He had only seen her angry once, but it was enough.He climbed the steps, avoiding the caked traces of mud almost invisible at the top. Size eight or nine. Maybe five seven, five eight. Nothing on the walls, or the bannister. "Hey Sam. Were there any lights on?" The uniform shook his. More

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