Dark Days by James Ponti Page A

zombie, which I was still hoping wouldn’t be the case.)
    The largest building on campus is Shepard Hall, which looks like a medieval cathedral. It’s even decorated with gargoyles and grotesque statues on the walls and archways. The presentation was scheduled for a lecture hall on the third floor, and even though I got there right before the noon start time, the room was entirely empty. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person who thought it sounded boring.
    I took a seat in the middle of the third row. Moments later a giant bell in the building’s main tower struck twelve times, and I heard someone enter the room behind me and close the door.
    I turned to see a man with a friendly face and a close-cropped white beard. He wore jeans and a sport coat along with a black beret that gave him the air of professorial creativity.
    â€œHello, I’m Dr. Stimola, and I’d like to welcome you to the City College Lecture Series,” he announced, starting right up while he was still in the back of the room fumbling with some equipment. “I’m an ornithologist, and if any of you are unfamiliar with that term, ‘ornithology,’ it’s the study of birds.”
    Any of us? I looked around the room to make sure that I was still the only other person there. I was.
    The lights dimmed, and a picture of a green-headed duck was projected on a screen at the front of the room.
    â€œI’d like for us to get started with some of the more common birds in the park,” he continued. “This is Anas platyrhynchos , better known as the Mallard or the wild duck.”
    I was totally confused. He was acting like there was a room full of students, and I was worried that I’d misread the clue and was now stuck in a two-hour lecture about birds given by a man even more socially awkward than I am. He continued to drone on about the mallard, and I was trying to figure out a way to excuse myself when a tap on my shoulder startled me. I almost leapt out of my seat.
    â€œShh,” he whispered.
    I turned to see that it was the professor. At some point when he was setting up, he’d stopped talking and was instead playing a prerecorded version of the lecture.
    â€œHello, Molly. Your mother wanted me to tell you that the Gingerbread House was entirely your fault.”
    I was totally confused for a moment, and then I made the connection. Once, when we were on a vacation to Pennsylvania, I picked a place for us to eat lunch. It was called the Gingerbread House and it was terrible. Everyone blamed me for the lousy meal and I was banned from picking restaurants from that point on. I thought this was completely unfair for one simple reason.
    â€œI was five years old,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
    â€œYou know who else was five years old?” he asked.
    I thought about it for a moment and answered, “Mozart, when he started composing music.”
    It was a running joke between my mother and me. She said that if Mozart was old enough to compose music, I was old enough to take the blame for the Gingerbread House.
    â€œIs that why you wanted me to come here today?” I asked. “So you could blame me for something I did when I was five?”
    â€œNo,” he said with a nice smile. “I’m blaming you so you’ll know that your mother sent me and that it’s safe to come with me.”
    â€œCome with you where?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll let her tell you when we get there.”
    â€œI’m going to see my Mom?”
    He nodded. “And she’s not alone.”

The Catacombs of CCNY
    T he presentation continued on autopilot as the prerecorded lecture played and pictures of birds were projected onto the screen. Meanwhile, I followed the professor into an office that was located at the front of the lecture hall, and he signaled me to be quiet until we were inside and he shut the door.
    â€œWe’ve got a lot to do and not a lot of time,”