It was one of those bizarre sorts of things that David still didn't understand.

Dr. Cunningham had been his tutor years ago when he'd been at Oxford, and he was now heading the Literature department at Magdalen. They were putting together a panel on Auden, and David had--in a bout of melancholy on the anniversary of Hector's death three years ago--written an essay on Auden's relationship to, and perhaps even fascination with, death, particularly in correlation to his homosexuality. He'd sent it to Scripps, who had then sent it to his editor, and before David had the chance to protest, it had been published.

The entire panel had been surreal, but David had answered questions from an audience who seemed actually to have read his essay. David almost would not have been surprised to see Irwin in the audience.

Even more shockingly, as he'd made his way from the auditorium, intending only to say a quick goodbye to Cunningham, he'd been stopped by several people who seemed to want to discuss his paper, including one young man--Christ, he was young--who had asked if David wanted to discuss it over coffee and pressed a piece of paper torn from the program into David's hand.

To say he was gobsmacked as he looked around the foyer to see if anyone else wanted to have a word would be an understatement.