Thursday, 10:00 AM. The University Bursar's Office.
The line snaking out of the Bursar's office was long, filled with stressed, sleep-deprived students clutching financial aid forms, loan applications, and desperate appeals. The air in the hallway was thick with the unique anxiety of young adults realizing just how expensive their futures were going to be.
I bypassed the line entirely, ignoring the annoyed glares and muttered complaints, and walked straight up to the front desk. The clerk, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, a receding hairline, and a nametag that read Gary, looked up over his reading glasses. He let out a long, practiced sigh.
"Take a number, son," Gary said, pointing a pen toward the red plastic dispenser mounted on the wall. "The line starts back there."
