AT 6:15 ON SUNDAY evening, the only fifth floor office with its lights on was Lowell Morgenstern’s.  Even the senior faculty spent part of their weekends at home.  Morgenstern worked hard, but he played hard, too.  Right now, he eagerly awaited a visitor.

Da da da DAH da.  Da da da DAHda.

Instead of the hoped-for footfalls outside his door, Morgenstern heard the sound of his cellphone.  Not just any ringtone, but the Wagnerian strains that signaled an incoming call from his wife.  Tempted to ignore it, he decided instead to get the conversation over with, before he became otherwise engaged.

THE START OF THE work week, a time for making promises to yourself.  Resolutions to try harder, produce more, screw up less.  En route to Franklin, April vowed to do all three.  Try harder.  Develop more self-discipline.  Produce a decent research proposal.

Drink less.

Not the first time she’d set those goals.  About to cross Vine Street, a hand closed around the back of her neck, startling her.  The grip released as she whirled around.

“Damn it, Chris, you scared me!”  The tall, dark-haired man smirked at her.  “Are things so quiet at the psychiatric emergency service that you have time to accost women on the street, Dr. Willis?”