The dean put a finger to his chin as he studied this great and troubling mystery. The applicant’s response reeked of insincerity, like, “Have a nice day!” with all the friendly burned off. “Okay, Mr. Darlington. I’ll just be a minute.

Rong Kang needed a college town that still embraced yesteryear, a place largely unknown to outsiders, a base where he could conspire at white linen tables, unnoticed. Claremont Village fit the bill.

A stained and wrinkled lab coat, no doubt, hid an even worse choice of clothing. Rolled-up sleeves displayed beefy forearms covered in tattoos. Frank grimaced at Mario’s shameless immaturity. Cartoon tats?

Very good,” she lied. Zoe had learned not to burden loved ones with God’s unwanted children. She had come to America with her gigantic hopes, intending to save money and rescue the sisters who had once rescued her. She wasn’t trying to save the world--just them.

Some people want you to call them rabbi; some people want you to call them American; some people want you to admire their tats. We’ve all got our facades. At least the dean’s self-qualifier is based on merit. Can you say the same about your tattoos? Come on, he’s a sad man. Leave him alone.

Zoe did what civilized people do when they freak out: she drank tea. She had walked from her little bungalow to Coffee & Tea. It was always filled with the well-educated, the complicated, the people who read books with captivating titles. A perfect place to ignore and be ignored. She found the anonymity delicious.