Free Prince of Time by Sarah Woodbury Page A

refrigerator, took a big slug, and relaxed as the caffeine hit. Then, surfing on brainwave stimulant, I remembered the men.
    That’s a pretty big thing to have forgotten.
    I showered quickly, threw my books into my pack, and left my apartment. Before heading back to campus, I picked up my coffee at Mugby Junction, my favorite hangout, and treated myself to an apple fritter while I was at it, rationalizing that I was too stressed for nutrition.
    Even though classes wouldn’t start for another week, I had a full schedule between my own research and Tillman’s. I thought that maybe by evening I could get to the library and research the knife. I had a pretty good visual memory and knew a couple of books that might narrow down its time period and provenance. Maybe that would tell me something about the men. Not that I was ever going to see them again.
    I was feeling relatively cheerful and in control by the time I got to the archaeology department. As soon as I walked into the building, however, my ego plummeted into my shoes. It had taken a whole two days for word to spread, but finally, every person in every office knew who had and who had not received a stipend.
    At one time, most graduate students worked for professors, either as teaching or research assistants, but that ride had ended two years before. Rather than negotiate with striking students who objected to the abysmal pay, long hours, and slave-like treatment, many universities had done away with the positions entirely. Rich departments like mine created the stipend system, taking only enough students as they could afford to fund. In contrast, many departments required students to pay upfront, just like in college or other post-graduate schools of business, law, or medicine.
    In truth, I’d come to Penn State because they had a stipend for me. Now that it was gone, I really didn’t know what it meant to work as Tillman’s research assistant. Am I funded by a grant, or is he paying for my work out of his own pocket? That seemed so unlikely as to be ludicrous, and I worried again about what he might expect from me in return.
    Worse, all day, I had to fight off the pity of my fellow students. It was in the way my friends either didn’t meet my eyes or gave me an insincere smile as I passed them. It was like batting tenth on a ten-man baseball team. Everyone knew you were left out in the cold, but at the same time, they had to sit in the dugout with you day after day, feigning respect. Of the five of us without funding, three had already cleaned out their desks and were gone. Kate, a (funded) friend, came by about noon.
    She plopped into a chair set near where I was standing, examining a pot shard with a magnifying glass. “So,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
     “You mean, ‘this,’ as in, ‘I no longer have a stipend,’ or ‘this’, as in, ‘why am I slaving away for Tillman instead of working on my own stuff’?” I said, without looking up.
    “Either. Both.”
    I sighed and looked down at her. “Tillman told me that I am one of the five students to whom the department has chosen not to offer a stipend. Thus, my options are to quit, pay my own way, or work for him.”
    “But the university doesn’t fund research assistantships anymore,” Kate protested. “This can’t pay your tuition.”
    I rubbed my forehead with my hand. I’d been so focused on living, I’d forgotten about that little item. This was probably just some campus job, like working in the cafeteria. It would pay my rent, but not my tuition.
    “What are you going to do? Are you going to call your parents?” she said.
    I set down the pot, pulled up a chair next to hers, and sat, my head in my hands. “You know what they’re like,” I said. “I did talk to them yesterday and they offered to rent the shack next to theirs for me.”
    “No tuition, then,” Kate said.
    “No tuition,” I said. “I’m sure their offer sounded reasonable to them, though within thirty