Somebody call animal control. I think a huge hippo escaped. Bryce Helton's voice carried easily across the South Lawn, loud enough for everyone to hear. He wanted everyone to hear. Marlon Walters stopped walking.
The folder under his arm, the one holding his engineering job offer, his entire future, pressed against his ribs. He turned slowly. Tanner Wolfe was already moving toward him, cracking his knuckles. You lost, big fella? The buffet's off campus.
Tanner said, stepping directly into Marlon's path and glancing down at the hands already hanging loosely at Marlon's sides. Neither Bryce nor Tanner realized those hands had ended every match unbeaten for 3 years running. Marlon Walter had one job today. Get his transcripts. Get his diploma paperwork.
Get out. That was it. That was the whole plan. He wasn't here for memories. He wasn't here for reunions or handshakes or a stroll down the quad for old times' sake.
He'd spent 4 years at Caldwell University doing what he came to do and now he was done. The place could keep its brick buildings and its manicured lawns and its carefully polished reputation. He just needed one envelope. Then he was gone for good. He parked his '09 Civic in the visitor lot.
Visitor because that's what he was now. Cut the engine and sat for a second. The campus looked exactly the same as the day he left in May. Same red brick. Same oak trees shedding October leaves across the same stone paths.
Same Sigma Alpha Kappa house sitting fat and proud at the edge of the quad like it owned the whole school. Which, depending on how you looked at it, it kind of did. Marlon pushed that thought away. He reached across the passenger seat and grabbed his folder. Inside it, his state-issued ID, a printed confirmation email from the registrar's office, and the letter from Keller and Associates.
An Atlanta engineering firm that had offered him a real job, a good job, the kind his mother had cried about when he called to tell her. The letter said his start date was 6 weeks away. It also said they needed official sealed transcripts and a copy of his diploma before day one. Six weeks. That was more than enough time.
He tucked the folder under his arm and got out of the car. The air smelled like cut grass and approaching winter. Students moved across the quad in clusters, backpacks, coffee cups, the low hum of a campus morning in full swing. Nobody looked at him. He was just a broad-shouldered man in a navy jacket walking with purpose, invisible in the best possible way.
He liked it that way. The registrar's office was in Harmon Hall, first floor, east wing. Marlon knew the route the way you know the layout of a house you grew up in. Automatic, without thinking. He pushed through the glass doors, found the line, and got in it.
He waited. 22 Minutes. He counted because that's the kind of man Marlon Walter was. He didn't tap his foot. He didn't check his phone every 30 seconds.
He just stood there, folder under his arm, and waited. When he finally reached the window, the clerk, a tired-looking woman with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, her name tag reading Patricia Gould, typed something, frowned, typed something else, frowned harder. Marlin felt the first small knot form in his stomach. "Mr. Walter," Mrs.
Gould said, not looking up, "there's a hold on your records." "I'm sorry?" "An administrative hold." She squinted at her screen. "From the office of student conduct." The knot pulled tighter. "There must be a mistake." "It says here it's a precautionary flag, pending resolution of a conduct matter." Marlin set his folder on the counter very carefully, the way a man sets something down when he needs his hands to be still. Four years, a 3.8 GPA, varsity wrestling, not one disciplinary notice, not one complaint, not a single letter, email, or conversation with anyone at this school about any kind of conduct issue, ever. "What conduct matter?" he said.
Mrs. Gould looked genuinely uncomfortable. "I can't see the details from here. You'd need to speak with the Dean of Students office to get that resolved." She slid a sticky note across the counter with a phone number on it. "Dean Willix handles those." Marlin looked at the sticky note.
Then he picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. His voice was flat, polite, controlled. He picked up his folder, turned around, and walked back out through the glass doors into the October morning. The knot in his stomach was still there, quiet and tight, like a warning he didn't have enough information to understand yet.
He stopped on the front steps and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a name he hadn't called in 3 months, Dr. Yvette Sanford, his old engineering professor. The one faculty member in this entire institution he trusted without question. She didn't pick up.
He waited for the beep. "Dr. Sanford," he said, "it's Marlon Walter. I'm on campus. There's a hold on my records, and I don't know what it is yet.
I could use your guidance when you get a minute." He hung up, pocketed his phone, then he set his jaw and started walking toward the Dean of Students building. He still had time to fix this. He was sure of it. He was wrong. The Dean of Students building was on the far side of the quad.
Marlon walked with his head up and his folder tight under his arm, mentally rehearsing what he'd say to whoever was behind that desk. He'd be polite. He'd be clear. He'd explain there was obviously some kind of clerical error. Show them his record and get it fixed before lunch.
Simple. Straightforward. Done. He was halfway across the quad when the cup hit him. It came from his left, fast and low, and cracked against the back of his head hard enough to sting.
Red plastic, full of something. It bounced off his skull and skipped across the path, leaving a thin trail of beer across the stone. Marlon stopped walking. He stood completely still for one long second. Then he turned around.