At this time of night over Easter weekend, O'Dea's ground level computer lab is mostly deserted.  Moses considers the quiet one of the perks counting a family member amongst the faculty; he can traipse around the campus at times when most other folks - including his father, actually - are home, like sane people. 

But he has a paper due and with the sudden recent introduction of BEING A WEREWOLF in his life, he is finding time management a little more difficult.  Thus, here he is, struggling to comprehend Andrea Dworkin and failing spectacularly.  It is around the same he decides to just give up and go home (maybe he will call Broken Flowers and see if she understands this ;___;) that the noises start up outside.  College students will use essentially any holiday to get shitfaced, so the shrieks are par for the course at first, but then they don't stop, and there's a crash on the little stone patio beyond the swinging doors.  Moses, now more than a little concerned, shoulders his bag and heads for the exit.

The extra set of senses he carries around now are more often than not just downright confusing, and he really doesn't need them to tell that there's something wrong at this point, but --all the same he kind of wishes his ability to smell was a little less astute, because the smell of death is heavy on the air, and things that should not be moving ...are moving.

Two of them, moving like they're barely conscious of their own movements let alone one another's - Moses suffers a momentary kind of synesthesia where they look like people and should be people, but are not, and actually let's just go back to Andrea Dworkin now.  No?

Okay, fine.

HALP.  :(

In the course of an average 11 PM  to 7 AM shift, a person can only do so many things to keep himself occupied before there's nothing left but the L.A. Times crossword puzzle.  He can make the schedule, which he has done (Poppy can't work Tuesdays anymore because she has a night class, he's actually going to have to fire Drew because even the most apathetic of managers can only ignore the coke residue in the employee bathroom so many times), he can restock the cigarette cartons, he can clean every single mirrored surface in the store until the reflection of his ridiculous eyes is inescapable, he can even occasionally wait on a customer.  Mostly he is refusing cigarettes to minors, whose stray thoughts produce a variety of expressions he doesn't bother to control.

Frequently, this makes them go away faster, and Liam is all right with this.  At 3:09 AM "Ziegfeld Follies hit song of 1913" (eleven letters across) is eluding him, and in the strange way where he never really feels much of anything, he is content. 

From experience, he should know this indicates a massive upheaval of some kind shortly incoming.