Within a few blocks 80 is officially inside the city again, flanked by shell-paved lots and bait shops. The pavement faithfully shoulders a curving bayou and black water reflects expensive houses from the opposite bank. Mac sleepily watches racing pinspots of light on the surface of the water, past a seafood restaurant and a cypress-boarded bar, the busy dots soon transforming into the upside-down monolithic image of the university campus's first-seen and tallest building, an eleven story male dormitory.  

Veering right, he takes the new bridge across the bayou, passing the natatorium and coliseum.  He’s surprised at the number of doors open and students about at this hour. Driving on, he comes to the dormitory that has just this year been handed over to girls suffering overcrowding. A fact gleaned from his television news watching.

Three stories, characterless brick, with doors opening onto walkways. A few of the windows are lit, celebrity posters visible within. He parks in the tennis court lot, with a view.

Nothing much happens.

The sound of something tearing at his windshield awakens him. A campus security officer snaps a ticket under the wiper blade. Mac's heart starts to beat uncontrollably. Before he can speak, to offer some explanation, the officer is already gone, stalking another unauthorized vehicle.

Mac finally understands that he hadn't even been noticed in the car.  It seems pointless to pursue the officer and say something.

He yawns, stretching, and eventually settles back against the headrest. Each identical dormitory door has an identical light attached to the wall beside. The sky is still dark beyond the tennis courts where the sun will first show. He thinks that's where.

Eventually there is motion; a young man opens a door, peeking carefully outside.  He makes his way quickly to the stairs and runs down, cutting across the road undetected.  Mac does not get a glimpse of the girl.

He rolls the window down—a siren, probably over from 165. Coming this way, sounds like. He fires up the Fury, stomps it going out of the parking lot, head ducked. Reflex.

Then it’s back to 80, at this point called DeSiard street, all the way downtown. He veers off on Louisville. The Holiday Grille is empty.