Tycho has a silly name. He knows. No need to point it out. His mom’s dead, his dad’s in Europe being, who knows? European or something. Tycho doesn’t much think about it so long as money keeps coming. It’s not that he’s rich, exactly, but he’s not bad off, he’s free of rent and most bills, and he’s got a taste for the finer things. Sometimes the finer things are designer drugs. Sometimes they’re women. Sometimes it’s just a walk with his dog Duchamp. He bought the pup to impress girls. Girls come and go, but the dog stuck. Tycho is nearing the end of his junior year at Northwestern, and he’s on his fourth major, at least. This time it’s physics; last time it was art history. He keeps hoping something will excite his passion, will grab him and not let go.