The Dark Path Read Online Free PDF Page B

Bethesda with soups for me. My own parents, after dropping me in D.C., flew to Europe for a vacation, their first time abroad. They don’t know yet that I’m this sick.
    Each day the hundred other guys on my floor herd past my closed door, laughing and firming up friendships. I live in New South, a dorm of hard-charging strivers. One midnight as my throat aches there’s a thump out in the hall, followed by love grunts. A toga party is raging downstairs in the common room and some probably-sheet-clad guy and girl are getting Roman up against my door.
    â€œI’m going to fucking rupture you,” growls the guy.
    â€œYes,” begs the girl.
    â€œGonna split you in half.”
    The girl makes a sound of agreement. Then they’re screwing against my door. Each time they bang against it I feel it in my swollen tonsils.
    â€œScootch me higher,” yells the girl.
    I send telepathy through the door.
Please don’t scootch her higher
.
    â€œKeep drilling me!”
    Please stop drilling her
.
    â€œOh yes! YEEEEEEEESSS!”
    I put my pillow over my head. Who in the hell are these people? I try to imagine any girl I’ve ever met telling me, out loud, to keep drilling her. Or for that matter to
start
drilling her. I had a couple second-base experiences in high school, but I’m still a virgin . . . Saint David. I pull my pillow tighter to my head to drown out Orgasma Girl. Finally she and her battering ram move on and I sleep.
    I dream of the path. I miss it: the Black Creek woods, the tart northern air, the shadows. Even from my dream, I pray to the Lord who somehow lives in that darkness back home.
Where are You in this new place? I’m sick. Please help
.
    A voice cackles from above: “A-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW!”
    Is that You, Lord?
    â€œA-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW!”
    I lurch awake. The cackling is music blaring from the room next door. My clock says two a.m., and the song pulsing through the wall is ZZ Top’s “La Grange.” It’s the go-to song of the guys next door, Pike and Brett. They play it about thirty times in a row whenever they come home drunk, which is virtually every night.
    I burrow my head under my pillow again. When the music quits, my room phone rings. I pick up but can barely speak a hello.
    A male voice says sneeringly, “This is the SS.”
    The line goes dead. My ears, clogged with mono, are unsure of what they’ve heard until the phone rings again a minute later and I answer.
    The same male voice says, “We are the SS. The train is coming for you.”
    I get similar calls for several nights. I’m enfeebled enough by the mono—and I guess innocent enough—not to comprehend what’s up until one night when I force my pained vocal cords to answer.
    â€œWhat’s the SS?” I croak.
    â€œAw, fuck.” The voice on the other end leans away. “Hey, man, I think it’s the roommate.”
    â€œThe Jew-mate,” laughs a voice in the background.
    â€œWhatever. Goldman’s not there.” The line clicks off and “La Grange” kicks into gear next door.
    Pike and Brett, prank calling. Duh, Schickler.
    When my mono’s contagious stage is past, Adam returns to our room, but the late-night calls from the SS still come. After answering them, Adam often storms out and pounds on Pike and Brett’s locked door, challenging them to come out and fight him. They never open up. They just guffaw at him from their cave. One morning after such a night, Adam helps me walk down to breakfast in the dorm cafeteria—I’m too weak to go alone—and there Pike and Brett are, showered, eating pancakes, looking like good little Boy Scouts. Adam could lay into them, but he sticks with me, his hand guiding my elbow.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    ANOTHER WEEK PASSES and I’m still not well enough to leave the dorm—I get dizzy just stepping outside—but my voice has