During his Literature of Apocalypse class, irriguous coughs erupting from every corner, Fitger had snapped in response to a student’s question: Why would any writer bother to make stuff up? Because, Fitger answered, reality was bleak and often unbearable, their puny lives a meaningless trudge toward the blank vault of death. One of the students named Sam—Fitger had trouble, still, distinguishing one from the others—gathered his books and his coat and walked out of the room.
