Rich looked up, his mouth full of pizza and grease dribbling down his chin.

“Whouf vherr?” he said. There was no answer, just another knock on the apartment door.

Swallowing and wiping his mouth, Rich ran to the peephole and peeked through. He saw a shock of disheveled black hair, a flash of pale skin, and a hand coming up to knock again.

Throwing open the door, Rich was startled when the knocker tumbled into his apartment, out of breath and visibly distressed. It was Marie Cullen, the girl from STAT 321. Rich had never said more then “hello” to her in the six weeks that the class had been in session, though he’d often found himself tuning out of the lecture to admire the shapely curves of her legs.

“You’ve got to help me,” she gasped, practically falling into Rich’s arms.

Rich’s mouth had already formed the words before he could think: “But I don’t even know you.”