“HELP US!”

Written in 5-inch capital letters on a sheet of notebook paper, these words sit on the sidewalk along Moss Avenue tonight. I’m lacking context, obviously, but I imagine two small children cradling the dirty sign with hollow eyes: a crappy M. Night Shyamalan flick.

Moments earlier, I made a beeline through the Bradley University campus. It’s no longer Deadsville, now populated with gaggles of freshmen taking wrong turns to their respective dorm rooms. Cutting across the quad, I perform a double double-take when I see a familiar face dash past me, turn around to flirt with a few people, then race off into the dusk. The dim light is playing a dirty trick on my poor eyes, I’m sure, but I’m unnerved enough that I put my hands in my pockets, my heart pounds, and I keep my head down. I’m ashamed of my reaction – I don’t fear this person – but my subconscious reacts like a balloon popping unexpectedly.

Sleep has been fitful and fleeting this week, and we know that days are growing increasingly shorter. Maybe none of this happened.