Splintered by SJD Peterson Page B

Lying his ass off was not an acceptable means of data collection. Go figure. Didn’t matter, his knowledge-seeking, while important academically, was really to satisfy his far greater personal need to know.
    Noah slid out of his chair and stretched his arms up over his head, yawning. He’d been too worked up to sleep the night before, and it was starting to catch up with him. He’d have to rely on coffee and sugary snacks to get him through his presentation today. He grabbed the news article he’d clipped from yesterday’s paper and a push pin. He studied the walls of his small apartment. There wasn’t a single spot that wasn’t covered with a news article, photo, map, or report.
    “Going to need more wall space,” Noah surmised and attached the article next to one he’d put up the day before.
    He hadn’t yet covered the walls of his bedroom, had worried it would somehow disrupt his sleep or bring back the nightmares of his youth. Considering he didn’t sleep long enough to dream, and most of the time passed out at his desk, he supposed the point was moot.
    Anyone who entered his apartment would be shocked. Not because he’d turned his living room into an office, the only furniture a desk, office chair and several bookcases. But he was sure anyone seeing the death and mayhem that covered the walls would think he was nuts, obsessed even. Perhaps he was. At twenty-six, he had twelve years of obsession on his walls, stacked on bookshelves, and, if that wasn’t enough, in boxes in his storage locker in the basement.
    Noah checked his watch. He had thirty minutes before he had to be at the lecture hall. He grabbed a Pop-Tart—breakfast of champions—on the way to the bathroom, scarfing it down as he pulled off his clothes. A hot shower and a quick stop for coffee and hopefully he’d be coherent enough to make it through the lecture and answer the umpteen zillion questions that always came after one of his lectures. Today, given his topic, he expected even more.
     
     
    A COOL autumn breeze rustled through the trees as Noah sipped his coffee while he made his way past the gothic buildings. He zipped his jacket up as he hurried along the sidewalk. It had been a typical Chicago fall—one day blazing hot, the next, freeze-your-balls-off cold. Today was in between, cold but at least bearable.
    The University of Chicago was one of the world’s premier academic and research institutions. It was at the nexus of ideas that challenged and changed the world. It was part of the reason Noah had chosen to attend. That and the abundance of other attractive incentives such as student-run cafes, a unique museum, local festivals, and architectural masterpieces by famous architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright. Since he’d first arrived in Chicago six years ago, however, Noah still hadn’t taken advantage of what the city or the campus had to offer. He’d hoped with all the sights, sounds, and eats Chicago had to offer he’d get out more, meet people, and make a friend. His fascination with death hadn’t waned, though—in fact had only continued to grow, which kept him too busy to socialize.
    Noah entered the auditorium and shrugged out of his jacket. Fifty to sixty people were already sitting in the stands, and he felt a tingling of nervousness skitter down his spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d stood before a class, but no matter how many times he had to stand at the front and address a room full of people, he had to fight nausea and shaking limbs. He was much more comfortable in his little apartment with his books and laptop. He could even handle one-on-one conversation, but he would never get used to, or like, being the center of attention.
    He hung his jacket on a hook near the door, shouldered his backpack, and made his way to the podium. His honors seminar professor, Dr. Fritzwald, nodded in greeting from where he sat at a small table off to the side. Noah responded in kind. He laid out his notes on the podium,