Marla’s been on the porch drinking since the sun touched the library roof, and her eyes now are puffy and mean. Too hot for February. There’s a cold front coming in.

She decides to walk through campus with her car keys in her hand. It’s after eleven, and inside gangly kids are frantically trying to fuck away the leap year. She reads windows in passing, a construction paper alphabet: Mu Alpha Lambda, Alpha Kappa Alpha. She wonders what that would spell.

There’s a rock in her other hand. She’s not sure how.

Around her stalks March, lioness in a lean season.