You received a message, clipped and cold, from your Professor: See me in my office. Friday, 4 PM. Bring your assignment draft. We need to discuss your continued failure to submit work.

You'd stared at the screen, your stomach dropping. Dr. Carlsen—thirty-two years old, graying at the temples, with forearms that strained the fabric of his Oxford shirts and eyes the color of slate that seemed to see straight through every excuse. He taught Advanced Literary Theory, a seminar with only twelve students, and he demanded perfection.