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* * * The Quadrangle at U of D was jammed, a thousand-plus kids sharing tables, studying, batting the breeze, sipping Starbucks, or scarfing fast food from the booths that ringed the room. An incredible din. Teenybop voices and laughter from the tiled floors and walls, a Grand Canyon of noise. Ax was a bit older than the average, but fitting in was no problem. Amid the sea of tattoos, dyed hair, and pierced faces, Axton's scars and leather jacket seemed almost ordinary. Ax didn't bother going through official channels to locate Roger Wilhite. Simply went from table to table asking for him until someone pointed him out. Roger Wilhite was at a corner table with a much younger friend, sipping latte, discussing some class or other. Wilhite looked more like a grad student than a sophomore, a squared-off five-six or seven, two hundred pounds. Dark full beard that camouflaged a weak chin
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