A bird-like scream outside his door. Sully, of course. He'd been making that strange sound lately-crawgh! crawgh!-out of the blue, for no reason at all. The guys laughed, shook their heads; that was Sully. Hart found the outbursts gratifying. They released the perpetual tightness in his lungs, reminded him to breathe. Crawgh! Crawgh! Crawgh! Sully's eruptions continued as he wandered the hallway. "I've seen the Lord, and he sure is pretty!" he shouted to everyone and no one. Don't come in here, Hart thought. Don't. Don't.
His prayer was answered. Three minutes later, it was his roommate, Andy, who came in. Returning from the shower, he had a blue towel wrapped around him. "Jesus," he said. "It's fucking freezing." Droplets of water slipped along his thin arms as he shivered, quickly dressed. "Already down to thirty degrees. Fuck."
Hart lay on his bed twisting his hands. All kinds of images of Francesca flooded his brain-things they hadn't actually done, but in his imagination were obstinately clear. Outside the room, the thump and slap of the soccer ball being kicked down the hallway enhanced his visions; he grew hard again. Then reality intruded: "Score!" someone shouted. "You piece of shit!" the response.