3

We set off across the campus. The 8 a.m. classes were starting to let out. Students trickled out of buildings; some lingered by the doors to stay warm, others trickled out of the same doors to head to their next class. But the electricity that normally accompanied the opening of the floodgates was absent, or at any rate subdued.

It wasn't hard to figure out why.

The Snack Shack was devoid of life, save for an employee shifting a stack of bagels and for a few students dotting the various booths and tables. The place would fill up closer to lunch, but it was surprisingly skeletal now.

Matt pointed to the far end, by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that capped the end of the Shack off. "There."

Hunkered around a table: our other guitarist and our drummer.

They saw us coming a mile off. Both had grim expressions hooked on their faces, and both whispered to each other as we neared.

"Hey guys," I offered.

The drummer--Guy--gave me the stone-face. "Why'd you split from practice?"

I felt like I'd just run half a mile to miss a train. "Didn't you see the, uh, the--"

"There were cops and dead bodies, Guy," Matt finished my thought. "That's a fairly good reason to miss practice."

Guy shrugged. "We still could've gotten in."

"Seriously"--this was our other guitarist talking, Steve--"he knows hot to jimmy the one window in the back and cra--"

Matt started laughing, but not in the 'this is funny' way. "Well, the next time an opportunity to violate a crime scene presents itself, I won't stop you."

I pulled a chair out on the other side of the round table and sat. "Whatever, guys. None of us have class now; why don't we try to get something done somewhere else? One of the practice rooms in the music building. We could go there."

Steve wagged a finger at me. "That is a great idea." He paused to think, then added, "You know, I have an acoustic guitar in my room."

I thought back to the entrance to the gym, our amps and other tech goodies sealed by a halo of fluttering yellow tape. "Yeah, we don't need amps. Or drum sets."

Guy flashed me a frown. What was with all of the frowns?

"You could use one of the classical guitars in the music building," I suggested to Matt. "And I should be able to pick the bass loud enough."

"Sounds like a plan."

Steve left, running to his dorm room to retrieve his acoustic and then meet us across campus at the music building. Matt, Guy and I left the Snack Shack, heading down a corridor that lead out to the central part of the campus..

Matt broke the layer of ice glossing the conversation with Guy. "Have you heard anything about--well, you know?"

"Someone is dead."

"Besides that, I mean."

"Eh. Not really." Guy pulled an unopened pack of chewing gum out of his coat pocket and fumbled with the wrapper. "You know." We pushed through the doors, smacking into the wind.

I could tell Matt was getting frustrated. "Actually I don't, Guy. Could you explain a bit more?"

Gum halfway in his mouth, the drummer stopped as the doors coasted shut. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," I started, surprised I jumped in with such vigor, "is that someone was probably murdered on our campus less than 12 hours ago, and that--from what little I've seen--everyone is treating it like a big joke."

We started walking again in silence. Guy was the first to speak. "Yeah. Huh. I guess it hasn't really, like, hit me."

"It will, trust me. Especially if you let it."

Guy moved the gum around in his mouth and tightened the grip on his stack of books. "Wait, in that case, why are we practicing now?"

"There was blood spilled on our turf. At our college, right in front of where we rock out. That doesn't change the fact that we gotta keep on doing what we do."

We passed a poster nestled amongst its fellows on the door to the student center; someone must've posted them in the past day or so. It announced a college musician competition in a few weeks. "Nor does it change the fact that we're going to win that battle of the bands."