In the squeaky, wooden chair at his cluttered desk, Dexter lifts the glass of Newfoundland Screech and Coke to his lips, wondering-like everyone else in Rothmere House-where Sali Dafovska rushes each night the second his watch beeps eight.

With his fingers, he combs back the bang of his hazelnut hair, tilts his head, guzzles. To the rattle of wind against the window, and Metal music from the next room, semi-nudes stagger with the walls and ceiling on his poster-splattered half of Room 307. Apart from the three-layer, white, green, and red flag, the beige walls of the opposite half are bare. He sighs, shakes his head. Lifts the glass to his right eye. Squints at the blurry, crunched image of his roommate, former refugee, now-in his roommate's words-"Full-fledged Canadian."

"Full-fledged psycho," Dexter corrects.

He burps, removes the glass, Sali flicks into focus. Light brown shirt, navy pants; jet-black crew-cut, smooth, tan face, thick brows that sometimes appear glued to his plastic, Woody Allen-style eyeglasses. He lies on his bed stomach-down, propped on his elbows, sixteen hundred page Windows NT hardcover squatting the pillow.

"Well," Dexter says, attempting again to break the month-old ice. "Not going to the Dinning Hall dance eh? So where you headed?"

"Just going out," he replies, east-European accent tinged with Newfoundland's speed.

"Out?" Dexter asks, spreading his arms, shrugging. "Out to a bar, to the mall, the park?"

Sali seeks his reading spot with a long, thin finger, finds it, mouths the words, finger dragging across the page.

Dexter raises his voice. "You going to the optometrist?"

A smile dents Sali's cheeks. A drum solo chops the rough guitars next door, and Dexter hears Tom's and Cal's voices humming through the wall. "No," Sali replies.

Dexter shoves the tumbler across his desk, cracking it against an old, bulky Emerson VCR. Above the VCR, a fourteen inch television is jammed into the shelf. He catches his dull reflection in the dark grey screen, leans forward, curses under his breath at the blotches of acne.

Snatching the Screech flask, he eases the last quarter into the half full 750mL Coke bottle. Done, he looks to Sali. "Me and Tom and Cal ... we been trying to figure you out."

Wind cuffs the window, so hard Dexter wonders if Rothmere has switched places with Cabot Tower. Sali glances at him, his gaze falling back to the book.

"Like ... you're banging some lonely widow who's into ... foreign accents. You know, like, 'Fock me, baby, fock me'."

Sali smiles again, a broad, cool one that fades slowly.

"Or you're a spy, or a stalker, or a serial killer. Tom thinks you're a ... homosexual," he adds, 'faggot' fluttering on his tongue. He studies Sali's unflinching face, wonders if the lack of response means the correct chord has been plucked.

Sali flips another page, fingers his watch. Staring at him long and hard, Dexter swallows a mouthful, tension chewing the sooth from the rum. "Are you?"

"No, thank you," he replies, as though Dexter offered a drink.

The sound of someone's poor sax imitation whines behind the wall. Dexter repeats the question.

Sali wets his thick lips. "I said 'No'."

"Then what the hell are you?"

He tilts his head downward, glasses sliding half an inch as he glances above the rims, face-for the first time-stern. "A person."

Dexter jumps up, slams the bottle on the desk, staggers to the window, yanks it open, sticks his head into the piercing, March night air. The gale stings his face, nearly steals his breath as papers wing behind him. "Citizens of St. John's," he shouts to the lit windows of Barnes House about a hundred feet away. A bare, hairy chest slips past one of the windows, a Memorial University jacket past another. "Sali is not a spy. He is not a stalker. Not a ... not a faggot. A person. Full-fledged--"

"Can it, Asshole," shouts a female voice below.

Gazing down to the parking lot, he spots her, brunette in black leather jacket and jeans, glaring up from the end of the dance lineup. She steps aside, stands aglow in the headlights of a crawling Ford Escort. Dexter recognizes her, the knockout who swaggers into one of his psychology classes, sits in front of him, perfume drawing the tip of his nose to the locks of her thick, curly hair, her scent filling him from the chest up.

"Asshole," she repeats. Ignoring the car horn, she stands firm, shoves him the middle finger. Laughter erupts in the lineup, several sharp whistles. The skin of Dexter's throat and face flushes. Darting back into the room, wheeling around, he sees Sali, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, whipping through the doorway.

"I'm gonna' follow you tonight, ya bugger," Dexter mutters, suppressing tears. The door closes, music from the next room suddenly dying, wind lifting mockery from the parking lot. Turning, he shuts the window with a loud thump. Grabs his drink; guzzles.

Lodging the bottle on his desk, he moves to head for the washroom, but the dorm spins. He falls to his bed. Giggling now, he wipes away the water, eyes the two posters of nude Jenna Jameson on his wall, another on the ceiling. Teasing smile, broomball tits. He thinks of his Jenna video collection concealed beneath several stacks of loose leaf in the bottom drawer of his desk. Slides his hand down to the stir.

Urgent knocking at the door shakes his heart. Springing to his feet, he moves toward it, but the door bursts open, Tom and Cal in the frame, both grinning, gesturing cheers with a bottle of Labatt's Black Ice. With his right hand, Tom flips and catches a red squeeze bottle, sticks it in Dexter's face. Ketchup is smudged and dried on the white nipple.

"Special delivery for slinky Sali," Tom says, light from the corridor shimmering on his skinhead.

"Double delivery, compliments of the Dining Hall," Cal adds, showing a yellow squeeze bottle, holding it like a gun to the red band that chokes his bushy, black hair.

Dexter grins. "You guys are actually going to."

Tom, wrestler physique, stands six inches above Dexter. "What I say, I do-and then some," he reminds, barging in, broad shoulder forcing Dexter aside. The back of his thick, denim jacket is bleached, Van Halen symbol neatly drawn there in black marker. Cal, matching Dexter's five foot eight, packing twice the fat, struts behind, coat similar to Tom's except his have the words "HENDRIX LIVES" printed unevenly, the last two letters jammed to fit.

Tom tosses the squeeze bottle on Sali's bed. From his pocket he pulls a box of Export A, slides out a cigarette, lighter snicking as he sucks a tiny orange glow. "We saw Dafovska go down the hall."

Cal snatches the Export A pack. Mustard bottle tucked under his arm, he fumbles with the flap, plucks out a slightly curved cigarette, sticks it through the drool on his lips. He stuffs the pack into Tom's pocket, turns to Dexter. "You going to follow him or what?"

Smoke cuts Dexter's nostrils.

"Gay bar downtown's where you'll end up," Tom says, igniting his lighter in Cal's chubby face. "Faggot refugee murdered down there last week. Fuckin' murder 'em all."

He steps next to Sali's bed, retrieves the ketchup bottle. Cal joins him, coughs spittle and smoke, glassy eyes squinting as he slices the cloud with the squeeze bottle.

Tom rips back the coverlet, pillow flying, knocking over the liquor flask on Dexter's desk. He counts to three, and in sync, they tip their beer bottles. Beer foams on the white sheets like super-charged yeast, drenching them as it streams down the sides.

"Holy shit," Dexter says, watching it drip to the tiles. "Sali's in the washroom. He'll freak."

They toss the empties on the bed. Tom tips the plastic bottle, and ketchup bleeds "SALLY DAFAGSKA".

He straightens up, halts the nipple half an inch from his lips, puffed face playing out-of-tune sax, fingers pressing imaginary notes as he leans his head and shoulders back.

Swaying to Tom's tune, Cal raises the mustard, lowers it within inches of the last letter. He pinches, shapes a flower.

They both move back, spreading arms like artists unveiling masterpieces. Stepping forward, Tom holds the bottle to his crotch, moans a fake orgasm, hips pumping, ketchup spurting. Dexter bursts into laughter. Grabbing Cal's bottle, he splatters mustard until the bed resembles a giant, mangled pizza.

Examining the mess, Dexter's mouth falls open. He blinks as though his vision needs adjusting. "Holy shit," he blurts, looking to the door. "Sali's going to freak."

Buckling and laughing, the boys seem to search Dexter's face. The tang of cigarette smoke lodges on his tongue, stales the taste of rum. He offers a weak one-of-the-guys smile, drops the mustard bottle.

"Maybe we should write Sali a bill," Cal suggests, gathering his breath. "That cost us two beers."

As they head to the door, Tom staggers Dexter with a smack on the back. "Tell Dafagska the invoice is in the mail."

The door slams them out of sight. Dexter plops on his mattress, heel rooting the yellow bottle beneath the bed. He wonders how Sali will react.

Dexter hears the bathroom door down the hall open, whine shut. Brisk footsteps. His heart kicks to a jog. He desires something in his hands. Grabbing the broom by his closet, he sweeps dust from his shrunken shadow. This week in Psychology 3200, he studied a character like Sali. Bookworm refugee. Silent for years. Then, bang! Bodies. Top story on the six o'clock news.

The doorknob turns, the door squeaks, the gap widens. Sali steps inside. Halts. His face suddenly pallid, shoulders dropping.

"They came in and I didn't realize .... I had nothing to do with it-honest."

Sali trudges to his desk, discards the toothbrush and toothpaste into a Buddha mug, turns to the bed, stoops with a sigh. The beer bottles chink loud when he grabs them. Dexter backs up a step. Sali lodges the bottles on his desk. Folding the messy blankets and the coverlet, he dumps them to the floor.

The middle of the mattress is soaked. With both hands, Sali clutches it, one abrupt jerk flipping it against the wall. He turns, faces Dexter. Anger brews in the shine of his watery eyes. His lips part. Dexter's sweaty palm squeezes the broom handle, his grip slackening as a knowing smile staggers unto Sali's flushed face. He gathers the dirty sheets, leaves the room.

A hour into the dance Dexter is fed up with the girls who shun him. Fed up with the brunette in leather and jeans who keeps glancing his way, saying things that pulls laughter from everyone around her. Then Brad, Rothmere's t-shirt-and-muscles house rep, standing a foot above him, breathing garlic, ropes him into attending the bar.

"Help yourself to a couple," he says, winking, holding up a styrofoam cup.

But the crowd seems so destined for drunkenness, there is no time for a free drink. After twenty brutal minutes, Dexter decides to pack it in.

"Hell with you all," he blurts. Consumed by the lousiest feeling in years, he grabs a twenty-sixer of Screech, tucks it inside his jacket, returns to Rothmere.

Outside 307, the splattered mattress is propped against the wall. The door is ajar, and when he pushes it to the scent of detergent, Sali suddenly straightens up from adjusting the cleaned coverlet. He glances at Dexter, eyes immediately averting to the closet, where he heads, snatches the already packed overnight bag, exits with a stern face.

Dexter yanks out the Screech, quarter-fills the empty Coke bottle on his desk, tucks the stolen liquor safely in the back of the bottom drawer. It's been more than a week, so he considers sticking a Jenna video in the VCR, but Sali's hustling frame out in the glow of the residence square catches his attention. Dexter moves closer to the window.

"Just going out, eh Sali?" he says, watching him veer left towards Burton's Pond Apartments. Realizing his roommate would soon be out of sight, he turns, scurries from the room, down the steps, pausing a few seconds in the lobby to grab a Coke from the machine. He quickly mixes half with the Screech. Tossing the rest in a big, plastic garbage can, he guns across campus, so drunk that the snow-patched ground seems to jerk from his feet. Spotting Sali, he slows up, panting as he passes the corner store on Allandale Road.

He turns left at the lights on Elizabeth Avenue, where an accident has backed up traffic. Two male motorists argue with a lady cop, white breath slicing from their mouths as she scribbles on a notepad. Dexter concentrates on Sali. He creates a distance of fifty yards, fakes a limp in case his roommate looks around.

As the commotion behind him fades, wind swirls, lends a razor to the chill. Dexter shivers, zips his forest green bomber to his chin, holds the Coke bottle in one hand, rubs the other on the lap of his jeans, blows breath on his fingers. He bloats his face with a swig.

Sali pulls the strap of his overnight bag closer to his collar, suddenly glances over his right shoulder. Dexter halts. Liquor spills from his mouth, wetting chin and neck. Several horns blast, and someone yells, "Move it!"

Sali glances again, cuts left unto Strawberry Marsh Road, crosses the street. Wiping his damp, sticky collar, Dexter pursues cautiously, his roommate whisking right unto Smithville Crescent, turning into a driveway, disappearing beyond a swaying tangle of what appears to be bare rose bushes. Dexter peers between the twigs, speeds to a jog, eases up when he spots him on the steps of a white bungalow.

Sali taps the blue door. It opens immediately, and a slender, blonde lady, six inches shorter, pulls him, holds the hug a slow three count before stepping aside and escorting him into the porch.

Dexter's eyes widen. The lamp above the door glistens her hair, highlights the double bulge on the front of her wine velour pullover, black slacks tight to the heart-shaped ass. Not quite Jenna, he thinks-but close. "Son of a bitch," he whispers, eying Sali, sucking a mouthful from the bottle, swooshing until every bubble breaks. The door closes. "Son of a bitch."

Bursting for a piss, he glances around, steps to the bushes, thorns scratching his jacket. He unzips, shivers from icy fingertips. Urine rattles on the sidewalk, steam rises and breaks. He chuckles. Gazes at the bungalow's dark picture window.

He feels the stir again. It knots his stomach. Scenes from his Jenna video collection flash behind his closed eyes ... the times he watched and pleasured himself, wishing he could-for once-experience the real thing.

The bungalow door pulls his gaze, lump inflating in his throat. He swallows. Tucks his half-erect penis inside his jeans. The wind slaps his back. Nudges him to the house. Up four steps, boots crunching shards of cement as he skims for watchers behind the blinds in the windows across the street.

Facing the blue door, he pauses. A noisy vehicle approaches, engine like a vacuum sucking pebbles, its snicking echo brushing goosebumps on his neck. He delicately turns the knob.

The door edges open. He glances behind, houses relaying shafts of pale orange from the oncoming Lincoln Continental. He pokes his head in around the bungalow's doorway. Darkness, except for the white cast from the porch lamp ghosting over kitchen cupboards to the right, coffee table and chesterfield to the left. Piano ripples from the background. Beyond it, a groan.

The Continental snicks louder, orange sheen on his shoulders. Wind gusts, launches the door, but he grips the knob, stumbles into the house, inches from slamming the wall.

He shuts the door, eyes flicking around, heart beating the hell out of his chest.

The piano softens, cellos hum. He calms his breath, ears tracing the music's path to the opposite side of the livingroom, through an archway, a hall that glows pale green. Beyond the music, another groan. He tiptoes.

The green glow is a nightlight low on the wall in the middle of the hall. He counts four rooms.

Sweat edges down Dexter's temple. He wipes it with the arm of his jacket. Takes a swig of Screech. The music, more distinct in his left ear, spills through a crack where the door to the nearest room is ajar. Three steps places him close enough to lodge his hand on the knob. He listens. The piano jumps to a higher pitch. The cello copies.

A wave of heat desires out of Dexter's jacket. Unzipping a few inches, his fingertips are dampened by the slickness of his collarbone. He wipes it unto the butt of his palm. Flicks his bang from his eyebrows. Peeping through the crack, he spies only darkness. He nudges the door, nightlight wasting over the bedroom canvass, unto the bed like a flat fog.

The coverlet is a mound. Long strands of hair dangling over a bulky, white pillow. The blonde facing the wall. Alone.

His heart throbs in his ears. He searches the shadows for Sali, spots the stereo on a dresser to his left. A faint, red string of dashes pulsate on the stereo. Dexter, unable to shake the thought of Sali's eyes in the darkness, tightens his grip on the Coke bottle, suddenly wondering what mouthful drowned the last cell of his common sense. He slips from the room. Turns to leave, but a groan up the hall seizes him.

He returns the blonde's door to its original position, looks through the archway, across the dark livingroom at the porch door. The groan again.

On the opposite end of the hall, a shade of white consumes the green. He tiptoes toward it. Room door half open. He stops. Cool gypsum touches the back of his hand; a waft like a stale sponge. His nostrils seek the smell, but it has faded. He glances inside the room, yanks his head back. Leaning against the wall, he replays the image-Sali sitting in a chair, book in hand, someone on a bed, propped against several pillows. He peeps, jerks back. An inclined hospital bed, frizzled, black and grey hair, pucker stretching towards a steaming tea cup. Dexter raises the liquor, downs three swallows, slowly tilts his head for a one-eyed look.

Old woman? Or is it disease stealing her skin from beneath the sagging, pink nightgown?

The cup quivers near her lips. She spills, flicks her hand. Sali jumps up, drops the book in the chair, rushes to her, rips a tissue from a box on the bed, dabs it unto her fingers, then the bottom of the cup as he steadies the rim to her lips. She slurps like a baby's first efforts at a glass.

"Thank you," she says, her words low, cracking.

Sali places the cup on a dresser, sits on the bed, glances in Dexter's direction. Dexter jerks away. The stench passes his nostrils again. He listens for footsteps.

The woman's voice: "Don't know what I'd do without you and Kate. Is Kate resting?"

"Yes," Sali replies.

"I told her today I'm sorry for insisting on staying here. So stubborn. It's just that I hate hospitals, hate them. But this is too much for Kate. And you too."

"It's nothing. I owe it to you, Ms. Cleary, every single moment, I owe it."

The sentence startles Dexter. Its length. Its tender reach.

"I remember ... the first day you walked into my class," the woman says. "Well, you kind of crept in." Her giggle is chopped by a painful groan. The sound of Sali shuffling makes Dexter brace himself for a run. Seconds crawl. Burping, he reconsiders the exit, but the woman's agony drags his thoughts the opposite way. He peeps again, Sali leaning over her, holding her hand in both of his, kissing her palm, the play of light showing her veins, the bones of her knuckles. He caresses her face, cracks near the corners of her eyes-dark, thin shadows, thin as pencil lines.

"You were so quiet," she continues. "And you were just as quiet the day you graduated."

"I wouldn't have graduated if it wasn't for you."

"Now, now, you're exaggerating. Winners always find a way. Don't ever let anyone make you think any different. Promise me."

His lips peck her forehead, hand cupping her jaw.

Dexter leans his back against the wall. His eyes fall on a picture that hangs three feet in front of him. An eight-by-ten of a young, dark haired woman shown from the waist up. He studies it, an old school picture perhaps, the subject too mature to be a student. Ms. Cleary? In the hall's green tint, her eyes so piercing.

"Would you bring me the shoe box from the bathroom? On the top shelf next to some towels," Ms. Cleary says. "There's something there I want to give you."

A scuffing sound, like slippers on linoleum, feet worming into them. Dexter's insides freeze. He looks left, right. Sali's quick footsteps. Dexter scurries down the hall, opens a door just enough to squeeze through, closes it almost all the way. Behind him the orchestra builds. Sali's silhouette slips pass the crack. Dexter gasps. The last of the liquor burns his gut.

"You there, Sali?" a soft, sleepy voice behind him. "Sali?"

With a trumpet blast, the music cuts off, and even Dexter's eyelashes are still. Until the stereo snicks. He swallows rummy saliva.

"Sali. This is not funny."

Dexter hears objects shift in the bathroom. The bed squeaks. He turns. The dark, blanketed body lunges to a sitting position. Sheets slide from her shoulders. He senses her stare-heavy as that of the woman in the portrait. He grabs the knob. The Coke bottle drops, bounces with a hallow chunk, rolls. She pitches a scream that rings his ears. He yanks the door, bursts across the hall, through the livingroom, out of the house, down over the doorstep, past the driveway, on the sidewalk, against the wind he guns without glancing back.

Sunday night, Dexter waits in the squeaky chair, fingers clicking the desktop, light from a waxing gibbous whitening the backs of his hands. Toes to the floor, heels raised and jittering, his shadow on the blank TV screen gives way to vivid scenarios of his roommate's return. Scenarios of violent revenge. Others of Sali creeping in as always, the door shutting softly, his watch beeping midnight. But this midnight does not bring Sali Dafovska.

Monday morning, Dexter awakes with a jolt off the pillow, rubbing his eyes, blinking at Sali's empty bed. Tuesday and Wednesday, still no sign, Dexter more worried than ever, that Sali knows the identity of the intruder in the white bungalow.

He returns to his chair, gathers the scattered papers on his desk, stacks them to the left of the VCR. Guess Sali gave up on Rothmere, he thinks. But he'd be back for his clothes by now, his books, his notes-wouldn't he?

He flicks his bang, rubs his neck. The sound irritated him for a month-funny now how the room seems deserted without those beeps.

Uneasiness restarts the jitter of his foot. Something may have happened on Sali's way back, refugee haters-like Tom and Cal-jumping him, beating him, getting out of hand like they did with the ketchup and mustard. This stuff is snowballing. A front page article in the university newspaper a month ago detailed how several students from Bowater House gang-punched a new Albanian resident-something about people outraged with the government housing these refugees, leaving our own to starve in the streets.

Dexter considers contacting the police, wishes he could reach Sali's family-but Sali never ever mentioned one. Barely mentioned anything.

He searches Sali's side of the room for letters, an address book-but drawers and suitcases produce nothing except clothing. He leafs through textbooks, computer notes. Still nothing.

Suddenly, an aggressive knocking startles him. He jumps up, yanks open the door. He feels the sag of his jaws and shoulders. Tom and Cal. They stumble past him-Tom backwards, fencing each other with refills of ketchup and mustard; an amused stranger swaggering behind them, a freak with yellow stripes in his brush cut.

"Come off it, guys," Dexter pleads, eyes darting from Tom to Cal to the yellow skid marks in the stranger's hair.

Tom swings around, glares at him, pushes Dexter's shoulder so hard Dexter stumbles backwards, falls to sitting on his bed. "You picking up for the faggot, Pizza-face?"

Heat floods Dexter's skin, curls his hands into fists. He tightens the clench of his teeth, desires to jump Tom-knuckle the bugger's face ten times the mess of his own. But Tom is the clone of Stone Cold Steve Austin-with two other jerks to back him. Dexter glances to the broom.

"We'll decorate your bed too," Cal threatens, adjusting his headband to a slant.

"Which bed's Sali's?" the stranger asks, eyes spewing anticipation; sleeves of his worn, flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, tattoo of a hissing cobra on his right forearm.

"This is Greaser," Tom informs, reaching, rubbing the freaky hairdo. "You wouldn't guess where he's from. Grand Fall's. And guess who else lived in Grand Fall's? Greaser knows all about him. Faggot, ain't he, Greaser?"

Greaser nods, takes in the room. "Biggest faggot on Newfoundland Island. Floated in with all them other Bulgarians back in the eighties. He was only ten then. Parents butchered. Man, the stuff we used to do to him, and he like a friggin' wimp." His eyes widen at the posters on the wall next to Dexter's bed, the one on the ceiling. "Knock me off me feet and yank me trousers down." He points to Dexter. "That's gotta'be your side."

Tom flicks the ketchup bottle in the air, and it somersaults a foot from the ceiling, spirals down. He grabs, misses. It smacks the floor.

"Butchered?" Dexter asks. "By who? Why?"

Retrieving the bottle, Tom says, "You know something, Dex? You've been his roommate for a month. Everyone else was out of this hole in a week. Sali's a fuckin' weirdo."

To the cheers of the other two, he turns, squirts "WEIRDO" on Sali's bed. "His mother knew he was going to be a faggot. Why else would she have called him Sali?"

The other boys laugh and wrestle for the mustard bottle, squirting yellow splatters around Tom's message. The bottle makes a farting noise.

"Excuse yourself, Greaser," Tom orders, grinning.

Greaser and Cal laugh. They toss the empties across the floor. Punching each other's shoulders, they exit with hoots and whistles.

Dexter scans the mess, forces his breath through a turned down mouth. Bending, he overlaps the sheets. Can't wait to get out of here myself, he thinks, scooping the bundle, and heading for the laundry room.

Contact the police, Dexter advises himself. Holding Sali's clean sheets in a ball under one arm, he shoves the key in the lock. When he opens the door, Sali is standing by the stripped bed like a stray traveler; hands in the pockets of his navy pants, face pallid, eyes heavy, bloodshot. He turns, stares quizzically at Dexter, eyes falling to the bundle of sheets.

"Where you been?" Dexter asks, voice sterner than he intended. "You could have called."

A soft glimmer of surprise brings a little colour to Sali's cheeks. A half-smile surfaces, but quickly becomes an awkward look, like a novice put on the spot. He tucks the protruding front tail of his light blue shirt into his pants, his gaze falling again to the sheets. Dexter drops them on the mattress. "The guys came back."

Sali nods, sullenness reclaiming him as he bends to make the bed.

A framed five-by-seven next to a shoe box on Sali's desk nabs Dexter's attention. He steps towards it. Slightly faded photo of a smiling woman in her fourties wearing a purple dress and matching blouse, standing behind a dark haired boy, her hands on his shoulders. The boy is grinning so broadly his cheeks are creased like brackets. Dexter recognizes the thick eyebrows, the old-style eye glasses. Looking to the woman, he suddenly remembers the big picture on the wall in the hall of the bungalow.

He turns to Sali, watches him press rumples from the sheets. Sali pauses, glances his way. Appears to wrestle words, quits, returns to fixing the bed. Finished, he retrieves his toothbrush and toothpaste from his overnight bag, shuffles to his closet, pulls the bottom drawer, hauls out a pair of burgundy pajamas, leaves the room.

Dexter approaches the shoe box. He glances at the door, the box, the cover, the underlined word in green marker: Treasures.

He fingers the cover. Light brightens the inside; folded pieces of loose leaf, cards of construction paper. He eyes the door again, picks out a card. On the inside right is a short, penciled poem, but it is the picture on the opposite page that captures him. Neatly-drawn, though obviously by a kid because the upward reach of the lone woman is too long, her fingers thick, some thin. An inch above her, a bird in flight. Swirling lines look like faded bushes beneath the bird-until he reads the poem.

Teacher

Dexter reads it again, studying the picture, hearing the wind, its hollow wail resurrecting the one time he made a card-a tormented teenager, a scribbled thank you to a tiny man with incredibly strong hands, a teacher immigrating from India just in time to burst into the boys' washroom, halt the trembling razor from splitting Dexter's wrist.

The bathroom door squeaks down the hall. Dexter sighs. Folds the card, drops it back in, adjusts the cover, steps away.

Sali enters wearing the pajamas. Lodging his garments on the wooden chair by his desk, he stares at the photo, picks it up, places it on the shelf in front of the computer books. Angles it towards the door. He pushes the chair in the hollow of the desk, walks to his bed, pulls back the sheets, slips in, covers up, faces the wall.

In front of the VCR, Dexter spots the empty Coke bottle. The knot in his chest sinks to his gut.

Easing out of his clothes, he switches off the light, leaves his reading lamp on. The sheets on Sali's body rise, slow, steady-deflating quickly. Dexter shuts his eyes, but sleep drags the opposite way.

"Something did happen," Sali says suddenly.

Dexter's eyes pop open. From the hall, a door creaks. High voice, Chinese male repeating, "Pizza, chicken, boys, pizza, chicken." Then end-of-March wind brings the sound of music, a mellow song murmuring on the window, murmuring Bryan Adams' Heaven in Dexter's ear.

"She died," Sali says, tucks the covers beneath his chin.

"I'm sorry," Dexter manages.

Twirling dust ticks the glass. The song louder now, a shimmer in Dexter's eyes blurring the room. He blinks. Glances at the Coke bottle. "Sorry," he repeats, hoping Sali will speak again.

Sali clears his throat. Dexter waits. In the hall, the echoes of Tom and Cal bugging the pizza-chicken man for a free meal, their voices drifting down the corridor, disappearing behind a slamming door.

"Next term, I'm getting an apartment on Freshwater," Dexter says. "Walking distance from university."

The song fades. Dexter finds himself seeking another tune, but a shifting wind takes over. "I was planning on putting out an ad for a roommate. If you want, we can split the rent."

Dexter isn't sure, but he thinks he sees Sali nod.

Turning out the lamp, his eyes adjust to the darkness, moonlight thickening grey over Sali's bed. Dexter stares there for the longest time at the breathing sheets, eyes becoming heavy, twitching only once at the faint sound of two beeps.