So I decided to start right there on the Monday after the Special Collections fiasco when the stinky old guy had saved me. I had established a new writing spot: a table at the Ag library. The place was not deserted, which was cool in terms of scary mashers but the people there were not so cool for characters; imagine a room made thoroughly dull by the presence of grown up Future Farmers of America. Through the dusty Western windows and shelves and shelves of dark green and orange volumes of agricultural pests and prices, I could see the red roof of Old Main, the territorial revival casino, sunk six feet in the ground in the center of campus.