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; “Come with me,” he says.
Some Students Are Better Than Others
Professor Cookman takes us back to his office, where he puts on a pot of coffee, and Cheryl, the graduate student manning his desk, is much more attentive than earlier. She powers on several computers on Cook’s workstation as a second graduate student, Scott, starts going through Cook’s filing cabinet—both of them moving as quickly as they can.
While Cheryl downloads a copy of Owen’s photograph onto the professor’s laptop, Scott pulls out an enormous file, slamming the cabinet closed, and then walks back over to the desk.
“The exams you have in here only go back to 2001. These are from 2001–2002.”
“Then why are you handing them to me?” he says. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
Scott looks dumbstruck as Cheryl puts the laptop on Professor Cookman’s desk.
“Go and check the filing cabinets in the archives,” he says. “Then call the registrar and get me the class list from 1995. Also get 1994 and 1996, just to be thorough.”
Scott and Cheryl head out of the office, tasked, and Cook turns to his laptop, Owen’s photograph covering the screen.
“So what kind of trouble is your father in?” he says. “If I may ask.”
“He works at The Shop,” Bailey says.
“The Shop?” he says. “Avett Thompson’s operation?”
“Exactly,” I say. “He did most of the coding.”
He looks confused. “Coding? That’s surprising. If your father is the same person that I taught, he was more interested in mathematical theory. He wanted to work for the university. He wanted to work in academia. Coding’s not a natural extension of that, really.”
That may be why he decided to do it, I almost say. It was a way to hide in a field adjacent to the field he was interested in, but far enough away that no one would look for him there.
“Is he officially a suspect?” Cook asks.
“No,” I say. “Not officially.”
He motions toward Bailey. “I imagine you’re just interested in finding your father. Either way.”
She nods. And Cook turns his attention to me.
“And how does the name change fit in, exactly?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I say. “He may have been in trouble before The Shop. We don’t know. We’re only just learning about all the inconsistencies between what he’s told us and…”
“What’s true?”
“Yes,” I say.
Then I turn and look at Bailey, to see how she’s processing that. She looks back at me, as if to say, It’s okay. Not that she is okay with what’s going on, exactly—but maybe that it’s okay, all the same, that I’m trying to get to the bottom of things.
Professor Cookman stares at the computer screen, not saying anything at first. “You don’t remember all of them, but I do remember him,” he says. “Though I remember him having longer hair. And being much heavier. He looks quite different.”
“But not entirely?” I say.
“No,” he says. “Not entirely.”
I take that in—trying to imagine Owen walking through the world, looking the way Professor Cookman is describing. I try to imagine Owen walking through the world as someone else. I look over at Bailey and I can see it on her face. I can see it in her frown. How she’s doing the same thing.
Professor Cookman closes the laptop and leans across the desk, toward us.
