In place of that old broken lamp, there is a single candle in the cave. You've grown; it's shrunk, and you don't know how many people can be crowded in. You watch them shuffle in, single file, and your heart seizes at the possibility that there is no room. No room for your dead once-roommate, no room for Keating. No room even for the living, or at least not all of them, not from the way Pitts is bumping his head on the ceiling and Knox, who has put on a few pounds, has to squeeze his way into the circle.

This dream of invincibility and inexorability too lofty, especially when death brought you all crashing back to the ground.

Mr. Future Banker, who sent out the invitation, sits with his hands in front of him, eyes closed, brow furrowed, face wet, lips curled downward in a whimper. His clothes are stained and his hair mussed from a boozy haze, which he hadn't forgotten to bring here. Someday he would get to the profession his father had lain out for him, he had kept saying in all of their letters. Just not today. Or tomorrow.

The rest whisper. A small old-style transistor radio that Pitts put together provides a small sound, but not enough for anybody to remember it. How exactly are they going to do things tonight? There's no Book—Keating had taken it back.

Dalton smiles without opening his eyes. It's buried with him, he says. Or it's right in his desk. Once a dead poet, always a dead poet. He wouldn't forget.

Silence spreads itself thick on the damp air in the cave. You can see it in his posture, the captive youth. Everybody else can feel it, even if they can't place a finger on it. Wrinkles and partial baldness from a life of not taking care of himself could defy it, but not oppress it. Dalton never grew up.

They know Keating didn't have the book on him when he hanged himself because of basic human nature, the fact of moving on. You know because you checked.

An involuntary hiss escapes your tight lips as you remember Mrs. Keating's face crumple when you bring it up. And you thought stupidly that he must have told her everything, about the book and Neil Perry's death, and now her back will break under the weight of not one death, but two.

You stayed. You talked. Your eyes wandered over the little woman to the cello case sitting just before the doorframe of the kitchen, collecting dust. Before you could stop yourself you told her about the six novels and your most recent publication, the chapbook, and how it all came from a look Keating gave him the day he left Welton forever. You told her about Nolan's document that had gotten him kicked out and how to this day you hate signing autographs.

And you cried.

Not everybody is unlike Dalton.

She smiled, then, and said that in that case she wouldn't ask you to sign hers.

You look up, expecting to see her thin face but instead being greeted with the shadows of the cave.

"He was so proud of you."

You don't remember hearing her say it, but you can still see her lips moving.

Everything gets blurry. Dalton notices. He pulls you to his side and slings an arm around your shoulder. He holds your hand, and you reach for Knox's pudgy one.

"He never got over Perry's death, you know." You recognize the sound of your voice, but you don't feel yourself say the words.

"Do you think that's why—" Knox whispers.

"Not directly. But he started drinking after he moved to London."

"And once you're depressed about one thing…" Dalton trails off.

A chill runs through you all. "He should've fought it." Knox says. "He should've gotten a lawyer."

Dalton snorts. "Where would've that gotten him?"

"It's hard for a teacher, Knox." Meeks says. He's the only one of the group to have become one himself. "He couldn't have afforded one. Besides, all the best ones were with Nolan."

Dalton kicks at the ground, and his foot skids away. "Why, Keating? You should've known better."

You clamp your mouth down hard on his defense. You get brief flashes of all the times you wanted to do something along those lines. You know your wife never occurred to you. You never saw her as yourself, running down a snowy hill after your best friend's ghost. But when she came into the room, you could see it all too well.

Keating probably did too, you guess. But his funk lasted so long that after a while he stopped seeing it.

Knox shakes his head, and the surfaced inner turmoil washes a few years off of him. "I would've done something," he says quietly. "I should have done something."

You see it on Dalton's face to ask how many negative years of law school he had had at that point, but instead he swears and kicks at the ground again.

"I should have broken into his house."

Everybody's eyes dart quickly to you.

"I should have broken into his house and yawped as loud as I could." You look up. "Do you suppose it would've done anything?"

"I think it would have." Dalton allows a small grin. "But you didn't know, Anderson. None of us did."

"Speaking of yawps," Pitts says dully, "Todd should read something. Somebody has to."

You immediately burst into refusals. You have to. You've tasted the cold lead lump of egotism, and the next time you do you'd rather have it in a bullet. This is the cave of every poet.

Knox brings order to the cave relatively quickly.

Dalton glares. You feel him spitting at your eyes. You shudder. You draw your knees to your chest.

"Pittsie's right, you know." Meeks' eyes dart around tentatively. "This is not technically a meeting if we're not reading poetry."

"You can make poetry without reading it," Knox says. He squeezes your shoulder.

You can't talk past the lump.

"Man up, Anderson!" Dalton bursts. "Or do you want to lose what Keating gave you? What you've got is really fucking great. And if you don't share it, right now, then you've already forgotten him."

Something lurches in your chest. You know he's right. But you can't open your mouth.

And then you remember. You push yourself a little off the ground with your knees, just enough to get a smushed Imagist poetry anthology from your pocket. You toss it at Dalton. His eyes meet yours. He understands, and opens quickly and reads quickly, the first poem in the book. You almost think he does a poor job of it, but the knot and quick quiver of his voice does it justice. He shoves the book at Knox and slides down further against the wall. Soon everyone has read. They look at you.

But all the words die gelid in your throat.