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a highway. You've got to stay on the road."
    Lars gurgled in delight.
    "Lars, you are one swell kid," Beadles said.
    He picked up the first paper, "Did Mongolians Discover America?," and started to read. Every year at least five papers about Asians crossing over into the Americas via the Alaskan land bridge, each student reinventing the wheel. Not that this was a knock--it was becoming increasingly difficult for students to come up with fresh antrhropological angles. Beadles didn't know whether it was the times or the students. There would be at least a dozen papers every year on the Vikings discovering America. Several maintained ancient aliens sowed the seeds of civilization. Erik Von Daniken was very popular. Invariably Beadles gave these papers low grades. He had little patience for ancient aliens.
    One student had turned in a paper claiming 7th century Druids had not only discovered America, they had deposited a despised wizard as far inland as Wisconsin. The student had spent his summer searching for the grave. Beadles suggested he switch his major to creative writing.
    Beadles got through six papers before Lars confronted him and said with the utmost seriousness, "Daddy I have to go poop now."
    Beadles set the papers aside and scooped Lars up. "All right little man. Let's get 'er done."
    They spent a little time in the back yard and when they came in Lars was down for a nap. Beadles returned to the living room and phoned Rob Whitfield. It rang five times before he got the recording.
    "Rob, it's Vaughan Beadles. Give me a call when you get this."
    He phoned the hospital. Whitfield had been discharged last evening shortly after Beadles had left. He would not shed a tiny spasm of anxiety until he heard from Whitfield himself.
    Beadles went back to grading papers. Betty returned at three, fresh-faced, pumped, and toting a big paper bag from Norm's Deli. "Ran into Liz Maroukis at the gym. She wants me to try out for Taming of the Shrew ."
    Both Betty and Liz were members of the Hometown Players' Theater Guild. Betty had played a small part in last year's production of The Crucible , and had been active in high school and college drama.
    "Do you have time to do that?" Beadles said from the couch.
    "I don't know."
    "Do you want to do that?"
    Betty gave him a wide-eyed look and a Bronx cheer. "Do I want to do it? Of course I want to do it! Shakespeare! The big time! But I don't have time. I barely have time to do my job and take care of you two. Where's little man?"
    "Down for the count."
    "Mommie!" squealed in. Betty dropped the paper bag on the table and went down the hall. Beadles took his lunch out on the front porch and ate it there, sitting in an Adirondack chair he'd purchased from Lowes. School had just let out. Beadles watched the kids heading home on foot, skateboard and bicycle, some chauffeured from Montossori school in their parents' SUVs. The air was sweet with honeysuckle
    Yet that one nagging little doubt kept Beadles from fully savoring the afternoon.
    His phone chimed "Baba O'Riley." He scooped it up and looked at the panel.
    Thank God.
    "Professor, it's Rob. What's up?"
    "How are you feeling, Rob?"
    "A little sluggish but I think that's the anti-inflammatory they gave me. Otherwise I feel fine. The swelling's virtually disappeared and now it just itches like hell."
    "That's great, Rob. That's great. Listen. If you haven't already told anyone about this…"
    "No problem, Professor. It was wrong of me to wheedle my way in there."
    "Bike ride next week?"
    "You bet. I'll call you."
    Beadles hung up with a vast sense of relief like a long-dried lake bed suddenly filling with rain. That left Anatole, the campus cop, the orderly, Dr. Musgrove, and whoever else had treated Rob at the hospital. They would be unaware of the protocol.
    Hopefully that was the end of it.
    "Professor Beadles?"
    A young woman stood on the sidewalk wearing a backpack, shapeless in an oversized Banshees T-shirt and baggy slacks with a round