The dormitory room we're in is stark. Not empty, no, still predictably cluttered; textbooks strewn across the floor, four matching monitors (all off save for the left-most one, showing a view of the building's exterior) behind his back, a bed in the corner that's not really a bed but a mattress resting on a set of wooden planks, a garbage can on the floor next to desk overflowing with tall, unlabeled silver cans; but still, stark, like the inside of a walk-in refrigerator, the taste of brushed metal emanating from the walls and into the crooks of my teeth.

I didn't expect to see you back here so soon, he says, then laughs.

But who I am kidding? Of course I expected it, he says, and he holds out a fresh keycard.

The Humanities Building, the Conservatory, and the Stadium, he says.

Anything else?
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