"Lizzy, I need you to talk to your father! He's being stubborn again and it's just tearing me apart inside and he doesn't even care and-"

"Mom!" I hissed into the phone. "I told you I was helping to proctor finals this week. You promised to only call if it was an emergency."

"It is an emergency, and don't you take that tone with me, young lady! You have no idea what I went through to raise you girls, five girls all on my own, and with your father always traipsing off on some field trip or conference or-"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" I stole a glance behind my shoulder at the half-open classroom door, behind which roughly sixty students were engaging in a flurry of last-minute cramming. I had about five minutes before my mother's idea of an emergency became a threat to my job. Knowing my mother, I'd need at least thirty. "So what's the emergency?"

"The banquet in honor of Sir Roger, of course! I keep telling your father that he needs to stop joking around and accept their offer before they ask someone else, but this morning he said he's not joking and that he has no intention of accepting, and when I said I already bought our tickets he said that I should just go and give the speech myself, and of course I told him that I can't just show up and give a speech about Sir Roger when I never even met the man, and he said..."

I held the phone several inches from my ear, staring at the hallway clock and dancing from one foot to the other as the seconds ticked perilously away. Interrupt Mom too many times and she'd give me an earful about that. Hang up and I was declaring World War III.

"...and so I told your Auntie Phyllis that I didn't care about the price of the eggs so long as they were gluten free, but anyway I couldn't stop thinking about what an opportunity this would be for all of us, and here your father is just throwing it away, and-"

Okay, enough was enough. Just a few more "and"s from Mom and I'd be on the wrong side of three o'clock. "Okay, all right, got it, I'll talk to him before I leave. Yes, I think so too. Yes, I'll let him know. No, I can't guarantee, but I'll do my- Yes, of course he cares about you, he's just- What? No, almond milk is already dairy free, it's just called- Yeah, that sounds great. No, I'm looking forward to it, really. Okay, see you then. Love you too. Bye." The conversation reaching a cease fire, I hung up before she could change her mind.

Ninety minutes, sixty-four Scantron forms, and at least one undergraduate existential crisis later, I found myself jogging up the four stories of the dilapidated Social Sciences Building to my father's office. With the elevator perpetually out of service (and terrifyingly rickety when technically in service), working in that building had put me in the best shape of my life.

I understood Mom's reasons for wanting Dad to accept the invitation. And, although I had no intention of becoming her henchman, I did have my own two cents to put in.

"Hey Pops," I called, pushing open the door, "got a minute?"

Dad was at his desk, and to an outsider it might have appeared as if he were grading papers. I knew that I would be the one grading those papers over the weekend, and that he was really just skimming over them for things that we could make fun of together after I was done.

"Don't tell me," he said without looking up. "That four-wheeled coffin of yours needs the Frankenstein treatment again, doesn't it?"

"A statistically safe guess, but last I checked, the Blue Death was still among the living."

"Would that not make it the Blue Undeath?"

"Perhaps, but that's not nearly as catchy. Poetic license, you know." I pulled the folding chair from its hiding place, shoved my bag under it, and sat down. Dad kept things at standing-room-only to discourage visitors during his office hours. "I just finished up for the day, so I thought I'd come check in on my favorite world expert on Darcian history."

"Hmph. And quite a pool of candidates you have to choose from."

"Hey, being a rare specialist doesn't make you less lovable. Just think of yourself as an academic panda bear."

"So, an evolutionary dead end on the verge of extinction. A fair comparison, I suppose," he said with a wry smile.

"But a popular one." I tried to think of a natural way to segue into my real reason for being there. And failed. "So..." I began in what I hoped was a nonchalant sort of way, "have you and Mom decided what you're going to do this summer? 'Cause I've been thinking about-"

"The budget cuts? Don't worry, my dear. Every spring Dr. Leigh threatens to shut us down, and every autumn sees me back here academically toilet training eighteen-year-old adults."

"What? No, it's-"

"Deplorable, I know. Would you believe, one of my future Nobel laureates actually referred to the 'LeBron's Age' in her final essay? I'm tempted to think she meant 'Bronze Age', though perhaps there is some ancient basketball-heavy culture of which I had been hitherto uninformed."

"Dad."

"We must always keep an open mind, after all. Even in my advanced years, my young charges are always imparting new wisdom to me. For example, were you aware that the current Crown Prince of Darcia is 'sexy as hell'? I must admit I had remained blissfully unaware of that fact until recently, and might indeed have gone many more years without-"

"DAD."

"Yes, yes, Lizzy, I know." Dad threw his hands up in defeat. "I can well guess why you're really here. Your mother wishes to conquer my will on the subject of the banquet, and has employed every weapon in her usual arsenal to do so. And, having met thus far with defeat on every front, she has at last resorted to her nuclear option: you.

"However," he continued, "as I have already heard every irrational reason why I ought to accept, and as there cannot be any rational one, I suggest you and I skip ahead to the part where I say, 'As compelling as those arguments are, my mind is quite made up,' and leave it at that. We both save breath, I make it to my meeting with Dr. Leigh on time, and your mother remains assured that I am a selfish brute who lives to destroy her happiness. Everybody wins."

"True, Mom does want me to convince you. But actually," I said, leaning forward, "I think you should go. Not just for Mom, but for a lot of reasons. Some of them rational, even."

He leaned back. "That should prove an interesting challenge. I am all ears, my dear."

"Well," I began, ticking each point off on my fingers, "first, Mom's actually right that you haven't taken a real vacation in ages, and it would be nice to see London again."

"If I wanted that badly to fight belligerent drunks down urine-soaked streets in bad air, Hollywood is a lot closer than London. And the food is better."

Ignoring him, I continued. "Second, it's been at least three years since you promised to visit Uncle Tony and Aunt Camy, and you never did."

Dad grimaced. "Your mother promised, you mean. I would never do anything so unnatural as to intend to visit anyone."

"Third, this is your chance to get the last word. You know, you could tell everyone some embarrassing story about him." I did a conspiratorial eyebrow-wiggle. "Share with the world some of the scandalous lad exploits of the late great patron saint of Oxbridge Archaeology. Wouldn't that just frost their asses?"

He seemed to consider that one. "Well, there was that incident with the vicar and the geese..."

"Finally, they're offering to reimburse you for travel expenses, and there will be free food at the shindig. And if that isn't good enough reason to go," I folded my arms and sat back, "I don't know what is."

Dad shook his head. "Ah, the curse of an intelligent child. Not to be content with the pursuit of full wardrobes and empty-headed men, she must torment her own father with such astute reasoning as this.

"But, my Lizzy," he said, fixing me with his best professory look over the top of his glasses, "you forget from whence that intellect derives. I flatter myself that I know you better than that. There is a fifth, unspoken reason for wanting me to eulogize Sir Roger Collins, and I suspect I know what it is. But life, you will find soon enough, bears little resemblance to those heartwarming made-for-television productions your mother watches. The Old Man McAllisters of the world, Yuletide change or heart or no, will rarely use their coal-mining fortunes to buy new iron lungs for the orphanage. And going back to Oxbridge isn't going to change what happened last time I was there."

What did happen? is a question I had asked more than once. One that had only ever received vague answers about "university politics" until I had learned to stop asking. Still, it was a mystery that had always tugged at me. What had possessed Dr. Abraham Bennet to leave behind homeland, family, all he had ever known, and a brilliant career at the world's premier university, to join a tiny archaeology department at the smallest University of California campus? Something had happened between my dad and his childhood best friend, I was sure of it. Something that had cast a pall over the rest of his life. And I was sure that if he could just go back there and settle things, somehow, the pall might be lifted.

However, the mark of any successful strategist is knowing when to press your attack, and when to retreat. "Well, it's your decision," I answered with as much indifference as I could muster. "I think you're throwing away a rad opportunity to get free grub and stick it to the man at the same time, but what do I know?"

"You know too much! Which is why I should have hooked you on television when I had the chance. All that reading of yours has been terrible for my health. But," he continued, standing up and gathering his papers, "I do know something you don't, something you'd have learned a full ten minutes ago, had you truly been here to 'check in on' me as you claimed."

"Oh please, as if..." The retort died on my lips as my eyes met his. I had seen that expression on his face before, and last time I'd seen it, it was preceded by the words, "Might you be interested in a little summer job in Egypt?"

"What is it?" I asked, my heart beginning to stomp against my ribcage. "What happened? What's been found? Oh my God, it's not Egypt again, is it? Tell me it's Egypt again!"

"Sadly, no, not Egypt," he said, shaking his head and stuffing the papers haphazardly into his briefcase. "In fact, it's just a little find that probably wouldn't interest you. I shouldn't have brought it up, forget I said anything. So, are we still on for dinner tomorrow?" He picked up his cane and limped towards the door, leaving me to trail after him into the now-abandoned hallway, the door automatically locking shut behind me.

"Dad! Stop! Wait!" I almost shouted. He was teasing me, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it, but I was far too excited to play that game. "It's a find, I just know it. What is it? Tell me tell me tell me-"

"All right, all right!" he interrupted, laughing. "Well, if you're up for a bit of dull reading..." He fished a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out for me to snatch away. It was the print out of an email, and I read it as we walked, my eyes eagerly wolfing down its contents. Then I reached a line that halted me in my tracks. I could feel my jaw hanging open.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad's mischievous grin. "So, what do you think? Discovery of the year?"

I somehow managed to find my voice again. "Of the decade, more like! Maybe the century. Look! Darbisi Culture building foundations, jadeite coins, a figure of the Three-Handed Goddess... and in Kent, of all places? This is huge!"

Dad switched from humor to ironic indifference. "True, that does suggest the early Darcians may have been troubling our forefathers a bit earlier than we thought."

"A bit earlier? Dad, this indicates a Darcian presence in Britain in the late Neolithic. This changes everything we thought we knew about early Darcian expansion. It means the Darbisi people were seafaring, just like you've always said! It means Sir Roger was wrong. It means-"

"Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves, my dear. What it means is that Oxbridge Archaeology is going to have a very busy year, and that the next edition of our textbook is going to contain a new subchapter."

"You have to go now. To Oxbridge. Seriously, you have to. Ohmygosh, you need to tell them you're accepting before they put two and two together and change their minds. Here!" I stopped and fumbled for my phone, furiously Googling the number for the department. "We're going to call and tell them you're going. Freaking slow Wi-Fi..." Dad laughed again.

"Lizzy, have you forgotten the earth is round? If you'll forgive my cynicism, you're unlikely to find anyone answering calls after midnight."

"Oh jeez." I shoved the phone back in my pocket. "But you're going to call first thing tomorrow, right? Maybe you should call around our midnight, just to be safe."

"Lizzy." He turned to face me, placing a hand on each on my shoulders. "My Lizzy. Your passion for our field is one of your most admirable traits. Not in a small part because it frightens away weak-willed young men so I don't have to. But," and here was the professor look again, "you need to stop trying to salvage my career and start working on your own. Now, when are you going to go back to school?"

The high I'd been riding over the discovery burst like a balloon popping. "Dad, don't..." I faltered, "don't change the subject. We were talking about you."

"Yes, and we've talked about me quite enough for one day. And now we're talking about you. It pains me to see you wasting your life dusting off old bones in the lab when you could be dusting off old bones in a field somewhere. You could be so much more. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?"

"I..." The back of my throat had grown tight during my father's speech. What could I say? Surely he knew why I couldn't go back yet. He had to know.

"Well." He turned away again, looking a little embarrassed. "I'd best be off to the annual gloom-and-doom cocktail hour with Dr. Leigh, and you should go do whatever it is that young, unattached women do in their spare time. Perhaps birdwatching, or a rousing game of Parcheesi."

I managed a weak smile. "Are you kidding? This is the twenty-first century. We do cow-tipping these days."

"Then do that, and afterwards make sure to stop by that party Donna won't stop talking about, or else I'll truly never hear the end of it."

"Oh crap, Maria's graduation! That's today?"

"Time truly does fly. Now wish me luck, my dear. And if not luck, at least the strength to stay awake."

We went our separate ways, he to the dean's office, I to the staff parking lot. Bringing up my academic status had been a rotten trick, but it had worked, and I'd completely forgotten about Oxbridge. I supposed I'd deserved it though, for being so pushy over Dad's decision. As I walked through campus and the beautiful Northern California spring day, I welcomed the feeling of elation as it seeped back in. The new discovery was a total game changer. There were Darcians, or at least proto-Darcians, sailing as far as the British Isles in the 30th century B.C., maybe even earlier! Or at least their artifacts and building style ended up there somehow. Was there some sort of trade route between them and the pre-Celtic people? Did the Darbisi break off from an older culture that- oh, there were so many questions! What I wouldn't have given for a chance to answer them.

Swimming through such rosy thoughts, I reached my worn-out old Pontiac and reached in my bag for the keys. Or tried to for about a second before I realized my bag was not slung over my shoulder where it belonged. In a flash, I saw it sitting under the chair in my dad's office. Where I'd left it. "Oh, for fuck's sake," I muttered, the high bursting once again. Any other day I'd have killed time in the library until Dad's meeting was over and I could borrow his office key, but Maria's party was in a little over an hour, and Charlotte had practically begged me to go. There was nothing for it but to crash the meeting. Luckily I'd known Dr. Leigh since I was four, and anyway the annual budget meeting had never been anything more than a stern lecture over bad coffee.

A brisk walk brought me to the much nicer and newer building that housed Dr. Leigh's office. Making my way down the hallway, I took pride in passing several artifact display cases that I had personally put together. It may not have compared with fieldwork, but Dad couldn't claim I wasn't doing anything useful.

The door to Dr. Leigh's office stood slightly ajar, and I hesitated before it, suddenly unsure about interrupting the meeting. Wouldn't it look pretty unprofessional? The dean was my boss too, sort of. I could hear the voices of Dr. Leigh, my dad, and Dr. Long, the university's only other archaeology professor, coming from inside.

"...bullshit, Jerry, and you know it!" Dr. Long was saying. "If the school's in so much trouble, why the hell do you have such cushy digs here?"

"Look, I don't control where the money goes, Linda. But I've had to make some very difficult decisions, and ultimately I have to choose what's best for the students."

"Oh, what a load of crap. What about those hideous bronze statues in north campus? Are those better for the students than an education in antiquities? Was buying them last semester part of those 'very difficult decisions'?"

"Like I said, those concerns are out of my hands. I was given a number, and I had to make it work somehow. I'm just a soldier in this man's army."

"Oh my God, Jerry, are you even listening to yourself? What about your job?"

Wait, his job? What were they talking about? What was happening to people's jobs?

"I don't see how that's relevant to this-"

"We are the only UC campus that offers a bachelor's in archaeology."

"That's just the thing, Linda, nobody does that anymore. It's all graduate work now, and Berkeley has a far superior program anyway. Enrollment in UCL archaeology has been declining steadily for years now, you must have noticed that. It's just not necessary. Your department is not necessary."

I suddenly felt cold all over, and everything seemed very far away. I leaned on the wall for support. What was happening? Was I really hearing this? Why wasn't my dad saying anything?

Dr. Long seemed to have the same thought. "Abe, how can you just sit there and not say anything? Are you hearing any of this? Say something!"

There was a pause. Then I heard my dad answer, sounding more tired than I'd ever heard him before. "What would you like me to say?"

She spluttered. "What- you mean you're not going to argue? What, are you in cahoots with this guy now?"

"Far from it. But I'm afraid there's precious little you or I can do. This has been a long time coming, and you and I both know it."

"Well, I'm glad Dr. Bennet can listen to reason, anyway."

"Unbelievable. Freaking unbelievable."

"I'm sorry, Linda, Abe, but the decision has already been made. Longbourn Archaeology is being cut."