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Veronica Morgan Wells. The quadrisyllable that halves its beats at the middle name, dividing again at its pluralized terminus of subterranean depths. The percussively alert c drowsily succumbing to the dozing s . Perfectly symmetrical initials,the V found twice upside-down in the M , inverted once more in the W , and, if spoken, easily confused with a German luxury automaker.
    Sara talked about participating in the First-Year Urban Program for preorientation, whose main project had been “reconstructing furniture for low-income families in Boston.”
    â€œI was pretty bad at it,” she admitted. “I think I ended up de constructing the furniture, to be honest. I was like the team’s Derrida.” She waited for us to laugh at the reference that neither of us yet knew. “You guys do any programs?”
    â€œThe Fall Clean-Up with Dorm Crew,” Carla said.
    â€œI didn’t know about that option,” said Sara. “That sounds fun. What did you guys clean up?”
    â€œMostly bathrooms in the dorms. The pay was good, though.”
    â€œOh,” Sara said, clearly discomfited by the socioeconomic schism. “David, how about you?” she asked, her eyes meeting mine pleadingly.
    â€œI stayed home,” I said.
    I returned to my room shortly thereafter. In my bed, I sleuthed around the warrens of the free! Internet for your name, adding information from the Register (high school, address), modifying it with new data that cropped up (on the track team, with three-­thousand-meter race times recorded in a few places; supporting cast in some plays and then, senior year, Lady Macbeth in your girls’ school’s production; a quote in a news item on Chapin’s website about your participation in Model UN: “ ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity for students to think about the world outside themselves,’ said junior Veronica Wells, representing Hungary.”). Progenitors: Lawrence, member of the senior brass at a household-name financial services firm and a Harvard Business School graduate, and Margaret, who, according to the New York Times , “sits on the board of various philanthropic organizations,” and whose willowy figure was photographed on a host of society websites. No siblings I could find.
    And no other photos, except perhaps for those cached in yourFacebook page, which was off-limits to me. (I couldn’t locate any additional social media accounts in your name.) You’d used the same profile picture as in the Register . I saved it to my computer and zoomed in.
    You had no affiliation with Steven’s modest metric of cute .Cute didn’t fuel Romeo and Dante and Paris, couldn’t galvanize the unerring belief that their inamorata justified any sacrifice, that their quest for Juliet or Beatrice or Helen, successful or not, was itself a peerless achievement reflecting back on their own valor. There’s just one Everest, and only the most heroic can reach the summit.
    You’d elected not to list your dorm room or any contact details in the student directory, so I combed the doors on my floor. I didn’t find your name and went upstairs. It was at the end of the hall, on room 505, a symmetrical number to match your symmetrical ­initials.
    Yours was also a two-person suite. Headlining the sign was SARA COHEN , CLEVELAND , OH . Sara without an h .

Chapter 3
    I looked around for you on campus over the next few days, a blitz of tours, placement tests, and advisory meetings. With my placeholder friends, I endured a marathon of organized social outings: the Tin Man gyrations of the First Chance Dance; the Freshman Talent Show, dominated by music and juggling performances (Steven put on a well-received magic act); the annual screening of Love Story , interrupted with increasingly tedious commentary from Crimson Key members, the student group that ran much of Freshman Week; the A Cappella Jam, exactly as fun as it sounds. You