It's a Thursday afternoon in late August. The year—I should mention this, shouldn't I? The year is 1993. I'm sitting in the grass on Old Campus with my roommates Michael and Jake, waiting for First Year Orientation to begin. A cloudless day, painfully bright, smelling of mowed lawns and sweat; the sun burning the backs of our necks like an angry eye.

In the middle of one of those strange conversations freshmen have when they first meet—breathless confessions punctuated by abrupt, uncomfortable silences—I cast about for somewhere else to look and see a tall Hispanic boy standing a little distance from us, arms folded, scowling at Connecticut Hall through thick square glasses.

I'm not a gregarious person. I've never been especially social. But it's the first week of freshman year and already I'm a little lonely, sensing that Michael and Jake will stop speaking to one another, and me, in a month. Hey, man, I say, leaning towards him on one elbow, trying to look relaxed. Are you in Trumbull? What's your name?

He sits awkwardly, as if he doesn't have much experience lowering himself to the ground. Despite the heat he has on a pair of stiff new jeans rolled up at the ankles and an untucked, long-sleeved dress shirt. Dark patches of sweat like Rorschach blots stand out against his collarbones. Rafael, he says, once he's arranged himself with legs folded. His voice is nearly drowned out by the faint music blaring from a window on the other side of the quadrangle. I'm from Delaware, he says. Wilmington, Delaware.

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'The Answer' will be printed in full in Granta 97: Best of Young American Novelists 2. To subscribe to Granta and receive the entire issue free, or to buy a copy of Granta 97, click here.