Julian threw his shoulder into the heavy oak entrance door.
The timber gave way with a groan of ungreased iron hinges, spilling him and Elena out of the freezing courtyard mist and into the front vestibule of Dormitory Building #7.
The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the river wind.
Inside, a wall of stagnant air hit Julian’s face. The lobby smelled of boiled cafeteria cabbage, damp wool coats left to rot on steam radiators, and the sharp chemical bite of evaporating purple methyl alcohol.
“Outer door is down,” Elena said, her rubber-soled nursing shoes squeaking on the wet linoleum.
“Keep moving,” Julian said, checking his watch. “Fifty-two seconds until the eleven o’clock chime.”
Past a pair of swinging wire-glass vestibule doors lay the ground-floor lobby. To the left stood the Ground-Floor Proctor’s Booth: an enclosed oak station built from dark varnished wainscoting, heavy brass security grilles, and a split oak Dutch Door. Its lower half hung open on brass hinges, revealing a scarred oak desk, an olive-drab filing cabinet, and a cast-iron master time-clock bolted to the back wall.
To the right, an adjoining doorway led into the First-Floor Infirmary Dispensary. A waist-high dispensary counter separated the infirmary from the public lobby. Behind the wainscot, a narrow internal staff passage connected Julian’s booth directly to Elena’s station.
