Ethan was ignoring the stack of term papers on his desk when the buzzer on his phone sounded off. He heard it vaguely, somewhere off in the distance, but it seemed to lack any meaning. His eyes were instead glued to the monitor in the corner of the room, where the swirling green and yellow showed a storm moving in over the city. Rain, for some reason, excited him. Perhaps it was the variance, the fact that no two storms were really alike. Sometimes it was a heavy downpour, other times nothing more than a light drizzle. The truth was that it operated randomly—a rarity in a world where control was the norm.

“Professor Kemp?”

It was Mrs. Hart’s voice, tinny and distorted through the second-hand phones, the most advanced equipment the university could afford to buy. Ethan wondered why she was bothering him, what sum of knowledge one receptionist could hold to rival that of an incoming storm. It was just rain and clouds and thunder and yet he was entranced by their movement on the radar. In this indeterminate time between fall and winter, no one had any clue what would drop from the sky when it finally arrived. It could be anything, wonderfully anything.

No, Ethan told himself. The possibilities were not endless. They were guaranteed to be some combination of previously seen behavior and now more predictable than ever. Watching the meteorologists on the television simply took all the fun out of it.

“Ethan,” said Mrs. Hart, her voice more urgent.

He raised the remote to mute the weather report and hit the speaker icon on his phone. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hart?”

“I tried to stop him, but he insisted on going up.”

Ethan frowned. “Who?”

“I didn’t catch his name. He said it very fast. All I saw was the badge. He’s a Litagent, Ethan.”

“What does a Literary Agent want with me?” He glanced around the room for any sign of contraband. Anything not Listapproved would have to be hidden before it was…

Too late.

The Litagent was already standing in the doorway to Ethan’s office, his eyes lost to that same involuntary search for something out of the ordinary. His face had a hollow tint to it, as if he had never known happiness or sadness, but rather lived in a world populated only by ambivalent emotions. He was dressed in Litagent standard, which meant a black suit and white shirt accented with a thin, black tie. On his head was the customary pointed fedora, which he promptly removed without any trace of flair to reveal his brown and perfectly manicured hair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” said Ethan, pressing the speaker button again. He stood, trying to act natural. “Can I help you?”

The man smiled something fierce but spoke with a subdued monotone as if he had years of experience asking people questions. “You are Professor Ethan Kemp?”

“Yes.”

“The same Professor Ethan Kemp who teaches Modern Composition?”

Growing defensive, Ethan crossed his arms and nodded. “Yes, and who might you be?”

“Now that’s an interesting question, isn’t it?” The Litagent crossed the room in two effortless strides and inspected the two chairs in front of Ethan’s desk. Sitting down in the one between Ethan and the door, he continued, “Does it mean who am I currently, in a philosophical sense? Or do you want to know who I am in regards to my given profession?” He stroked his chin. “A devilish question indeed. One might say there exists simultaneously no and infinite answers.” A mock frown. “I might be anyone.”