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“Please, proceed,” Ethan said, once he was settled.

Martin was surprised that those were the first words out of Ethan’s mouth. He had expected an apology. No new teller—even the worst—had ever shown up late without an apology.

He slid a packet on credits and debits down the table to Ethan. “Get the notes you missed from another student, and don’t be late again.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

NOW

MARTIN COULDN’T REMEMBER ever being somewhere that was as dark as where he was right now. His eyes strained to focus, but there was nothing to focus on. Even his hand held to his nose was as indiscernible as the rest of the cave. The only sounds: his heartbeat quickening, his own nervous breath, the pebbles crunching underneath the subtle shifting of his feet.

Then, in his head, he heard a voice so loud that he couldn’t ignore it.

“That’s for what you’ve done to him!”

And a flash of memory he couldn’t forget: The old man, now plump and mostly bald, fell to his knees while the back of a fist cut across his jaw.

“Learn to take responsibility!”

Another strike hit the opposite side of the man’s face.

Suddenly, Martin no longer felt like he was alone. The old man was there, too—slowly approaching.

He spun around in the darkness, shouted again for Cynthia and Ethan.

THEN

ETHAN RENTED A Geo Metro through Friday, not that having his own car got him to the class any sooner. Nor did his snide comments make him popular with the other trainees. But Martin still had hope for the student; despite Ethan’s attitude, Martin could tell by his efficiency with the computer-generated simulations that he had the potential to be good at the job.

“Still, you have to cut out the sarcasm,” Martin told him after class on Wednesday. “You won’t last long here at National, otherwise.”

“Boo-hoo.”

“I’m trying to help you out. You’re smart, but your mouth is going to get you in trouble, you hear me? Especially if you let those kinds of comments slip out around Mr. McDonald. He’ll fire you like that,” Martin said, snapping his fingers.

“He’s a little stiff, isn’t he? Bet he hasn’t gotten his rocks off in years.”

Martin threw his hands up in frustration, grabbed his briefcase from the corner of the room. “If you don’t want to listen to me, that’s fine. I’m just trying to warn you.”

But before he could leave, Ethan said, “Hey, was this what you really wanted to do with your life?”

“Excuse me?”

“Because it ain’t what I wanted to do with mine.”

Martin hesitated, feeling much the same way, and said a little more sympathetically: “What did you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Something more exciting.”

Everybody wanted to do something more exciting, Martin thought. But real life didn’t permit everybody that luxury. Someone had to run the teller windows. Dreaming was okay for people like Cynthia, who knew what they wanted, but at the end of a long day (and every day was long), Martin had no patience for lost dreamers. “Well, you better figure it out fast. Because if you don’t want to be here, stop wasting everyone’s time.”

NOW

WHEN YOU’RE DEAD, you’re dead. The old man was not coming out of either passageway Martin had seen before his headlamp had gone out. Martin knew this. But that didn’t stop his fear from compounding.

Moving carefully, hands held out in front of him, he found his way to the edge of the narrow cavern. Then he turned around, pressed his back against the cold rocks.

Nobody was coming for him. . . . But if somebody was, at least they couldn’t sneak up on him from behind.

“Cynthia! Ethan! I’m down here! Please help me!”

THEN

ON THURSDAY, ETHAN showed up on time for class and kept his comments to himself. Maybe, just maybe, Martin’s advice had been valuable, he’d decided, if for no other reason than losing his job—especially for behavioral problems—might draw into question his mental stability.

Now, with the plan to kill his mother still just out of reach, was not the time to make others doubt said stability.

But that wasn’t the only reason he’d decided to change his behavior at work. Atlanta could be a lonely place without a friend. The endless crowds of strangers, meaningless interchangeable faces, enhanced Ethan’s sense of isolation, and the concern Martin had shown for Ethan the day before had left him to wonder, Is he somebody worth knowing?

To find out, he asked Martin if he’d like to get a beer after work.

Ethan had spent the previous weekend in search of a fake ID. He thought if he could get his hands on a six-pack, or maybe a bottle of Smirnoff, he could quiet his mind.

He knew from previous conversations with his pop that Emory University was somewhere nearby. “It’s a good business school,” his father had said. “And close enough to visit.”

That was before the breakdown. Since he’d been committed to Ridgeview, nobody mentioned college.

Still, Emory’s campus would be crawling with underage students looking for a way to buy beer. All he had to do was find one that would take him into their confidence. That, he figured, would certainly be manageable.

Getting to it, though, without a car would be nearly impossible. So, he took the subway to Georgia State University—an urban sprawl of old brick buildings located right in the heart of downtown. He introduced himself to a small group of students gathered near the doors of the general classroom building.

They weren’t the first group he had spoken with, but they did prove the most helpful—which was good since the sun was setting, and the number of students hanging around was dwindling.

After several minutes of chitchat about classes he pretended to be taking and professors he didn’t know, he asked, “Hey, anyone having a party this weekend?” The question felt awkward, forced. He hoped he sounded like just another student looking for something to do.

Brad shrugged. “Sure.” He looked every inch a fraternity man—with parted blond hair that was so thick with hairspray it didn’t blow