d applied to Montpelier. They accepted
me for the semester that starts right after Christmas."

"Congratulations!"

"Yeah, pretty good, huh? Joe Burke, software bum, goes for an MFA. But
I'm not sure I should."

"Why not?"

"Pretty expensive," Joe said.

"What would it cost?"

"$3800 a semester, times four." He frowned. "I've got enough to get
started, but I'd run out before the second semester."

"There's loan money for graduate school," Mo said.

"I guess. It doesn't make sense from a financial point of view; I'll
never get a teaching job. But I think I could learn something."

"You have to make a commitment," Mo said firmly.

"The winter residency is in Florida. For 'housemates preference,' I
requested older women of independent means."

"They can be difficult," Mo said. "How come Florida? I thought the
school was in Vermont."

"The summer session is in Vermont. I think it was a faculty decision.
They leased a hotel in the panhandle." Joe scratched his head. "I don't
know. One way of looking at it is that part of the money would pay for
a vacation in Florida. It's way over near Alabama. I've never been in
that part of the state."

Mo placed her chopsticks neatly across her plate and wiped her mouth
with a napkin. She began to fidget.

"Well, onward," Joe said. "You want to go exploring sometime? Look at
things?"

"Mmm." She looked out the window. "I'm awfully busy for the next while
. . . "

He sighed dramatically. "I'll just have to go myself. Maybe when I get
back from Florida?"

"Give me a call," she said. They left, as usual, in opposite directions
on Kapahulu Avenue. She was like a figure on a Japanese fan, slowly
unfolding, then snapped shut. Let it be, he thought.

He spent the next few days working on a story about the time he and
Morgan found a cache of dynamite hidden by the Weathermen, a radical
group in the late 60's. He described the lost note that led them to a
deserted house at the end of a road, the cold cloudy December
afternoon, the shock of discovering a duffel bag in the crawl space
under the house, the cardboard tubes of explosive, the tangle of
blasting caps, and the ominous silence. But, as he went on to write
about the FBI, the local lawyer, and the lawyer's wife, he began to
lose focus. One thing led to another. Was he writing a story or a
novel? Again he realized that he had a lot to learn.

He was worried about money, but he put off looking for a job. He
could