There is no panic so pure as the panic of jolting out of deep writing flow to the sound of a fire alarm, unless it is the panic of jolting out of deep writing flow to the sound of a fire alarm in a building you still get lost in.
After a brief internal struggle as to whether I should save my laptop or my curry, I threw on a fleece and dashed out of my room. Luckily, there was a stream of similarly pajamaed Old Hallers pouring out of their rooms. I followed the herd down the Forbidden Staircase—the one that would cut eleven out of twelve steps out of my convoluted route from front doors to bedroom, if only we were allowed to use it—and outside. Luckily it wasn’t raining. I was a little self-conscious standing on the front lawn in galaxy pajama bottoms and sockless shoes, until a floormate came out in a T-shirt and towel.
The entire population of Aberdare Old Hall (or at least that segment of it without enough social life to have someplace better to be on a Saturday night) stood on the front lawn for about ten minutes while the baffled campus police searched the building trying to figure out what was on fire. I spent the time talking to a fellow geek named Shonelle (?) about Terry Pratchett and Cassandra Clare and manga and the introvert cave.
Presumably the culprit was someone’s dinner, but campus police never found it. On the bright side, that was the wildest Saturday night some of us are likely to have this semester.
