Me: "Meeting went differently than expected. Can you meet me? Before your 9 AM appointment?"
Brooklyn: "Is everything okay?"
Me: "Not expelled. Not fired. But we need to talk. Now."
Brooklyn: "Where?"
Me: "The parking lot. Building C. I'm in my car."
Fifteen past seven, just like that - she appeared, hair wet and stuck to her cheeks, feet bare, lost in wide gray pants and a coat too big. Into the seat she slid; at once, my hand moved to the door handle, almost on its own. The quiet sat heavy, stretching out far ahead of any speech.
"What happened?" She was breathless. "You said you're not fired?"
Fixed on the distance, eyes unblinking. Words came from the dean, offering what she had written. Never once looking her way. Outside the glass, nothing but space stretched out - an empty stretch of highway, still
"What kind of deal?"
