Update:
As of 3:00 a.m. on 11/30 I have 43,351 words.

Morale: 21 hours, 7,000 words - the all-nighter continues. And who knew I'd ever be grateful to the noisy neighbors upstairs for keeping me awake all night?

Excerpt:

From the top step I find what I’m looking for: it may have started as a debate, but now it’s an argument, and it’s well on its way to becoming a very promising shouting match.

I drill my way through the crowd, and make it to within a few feet of the potential combatants. Politics – if there ever were any – are long gone. By the time I arrive, it’s all about name calling.

In this corner: a young guy built like a football player, wearing the school colors. His blue eyes and platinum eyebrows stand out against his red face and anger spit is hanging from the corner of his mouth, but his arms are dangling a little loosely for my taste. His potential opponent: a skinny bearded guy in frayed cords and a knitted poncho – his fists are already balled up, and a vein bulges prominently at his temple.

School Colors has the bulk, but Poncho looks more eager to kick someone’s ass. My money’s on Poncho. It’s all about heart.

Which foils my hastily constucted plan: I was expecting to come up behind the guy less likely to take the first swing, trip into his back, and push him forward in an apparent show of aggression at the guy whose been itching to throw a punch all along.

But unless he’s already off balance, I’m not going to be able to budge School Colors.

Okay, Plan B. I’ve got to think of Plan B, and I’ve got to do it quickly before tempers die down and the moment is lost. And if this breaks up, it won’t be long before the entire crowd is gently encouraged to disperse.

Three of the campus police are already on their way over. School Colors notices their approach, and decides to wrap things up. He lifts his arms in a final gesture of bring it on, but he doesn’t hold it long enough for Poncho to cross the line, probably deliberately. I was right – the kid lacks heart.

As he puts his arms down, he lifts his right foot, about to turn away. I take the opening, and – not even bothering to disguise it as a trip – throw myself squarely into his back. He takes a few stumbling steps forward, and Poncho, already wound up tight, springs to meet him, fists flying. School Colors must play defense, because at last he looks like he knows what he’s doing.

Our section of the crowd erupts in chaos, and the campus police just start grabbing anyone who seems to be involved in the altercation. One of them pushes by me to get to the person behind me, some kid wearing black clothes and an unflattering buzz cut. I push back, and the young officer changes his target.

The kid in black stares at me, his mouth hanging open. I wonder how much he saw; the look in his eye suggests he caught the whole thing.

I give him a wink as I’m pulled out of the crowd.