"We're going to be studying Hamlet," Sullivan announced on day eleven. He had a huge travel cup in his hand; it made the whole room smell like coffee. I'd never seen him without coffee. As a junior faculty member, he lived on campus and doubled as our dorm's resident advisor--his wife, rumor had it, had left him for a CEO of a company that made crap like My

Little Ponies or something. The hall by his room always smelled like a shrine to caffeine. "How many of you have read it?"

It was a small class, even by Thornking-Ash standards: eight kids. No hands went up.

"Heathens," Sullivan said pleasantly. "Well, it's better if you're all Hamlet-virgins, I suppose. Surely you've at least heard of it."

There were mumbling noises of assent. I hadn't read Hamlet, but I was on good terms with Shakespeare. From the moment I heard, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players," I'd been okay with Shakespeare. No fanboy stuff or secret handshakes or anything like that. But if we passed each other in the hall, we'd probably nod at each other.

Sullivan pressed on. "Well, let's start there. What do you guys think of when you hear 'Hamlet'? No, Paul. No hands. Just call it out."

"A small village," said Eric. Eric technically wasn't a student. I think he was supposed to be a teaching assistant but damned if

I'd ever seen him assist Sullivan with anything. "Right? Like a tiny hamlet in the Swiss alps or something."

This was such a stupid answer that the rest of the class immediately relaxed. The bar had been set low enough that we could shout out just about anything.