The Wistful Campus
"You're late again, Mr. Thorne." I stopped at the door. The hallway smelled of damp wool and floor wax. "Yes," I said. "Three times this month." "I know." Dr. Aris stood behind his desk. He did not look up. His hands were folded over a stack of files. The wood was dark, polished by years of friction. "Sit," he said. I sat. The chair was cold. The office was small. One window. Dust motes danced...
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