Cornhell. This is the nickname I hear as I cross the Arts Quad every morning, fifty students shivering under parkas with a ring of fur around their face, their L.L. Bean boots dragging through dirty slush. Some clutch cups of mediocre coffee from Libe. All bear an expression of death on their faces. Reality is uncertain and terrifying right now, ridden with countless events startling Cornellians over the past few months — the discovery of a weapon stockpile in Collegetown, an atrocious pig roast, a string of racial and sexual violence.