Dean of Faculty, Silas Hughes, P.h.D. Dear God, even his name was intimidating. Professor Lanh sat with her hands folded in her lap, her knees bouncing with anxiety as she wrestled with her flight instincts. She wanted to run for her life, but fear of losing her job kept her firmly rooted in her seat. She mentally traced the lettering on his gold nameplate, silently begging herself to stay calm under his scrutinizing gaze. It was obvious that she didn’t meet his exacting expectations for a professor at the prestigious St. Lucia University, and it showed in his unwavering glare.

    “Twenty-three days, Miss Lanh. You’ve been employed at this institution for nearly a month and you’re already falling behind on your work,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. He placed her file on the table, spreading the pages out so she could peek at her paperwork and all the little marks he’d made in bright red ink. 

    “Yes, sir, that is correct. I want to formally apologize for–” 

    “Apologize? Look, apologies might have flown when you were in college, but now that you’ve entered the working world of professional academics, a simple I’m sorry isn’t going to cut it,” he interrupted. “I took a risk when I hired you, Miss Lanh. Despite your spotless records, impressive resume and college transcripts that are so flawless I still suspect them to be fraudulent, your age has been the single determining factor in your application being rejected from every school you’ve applied to. You’re young, especially for a teacher but even more so for a Professor of Philosophy. Students don’t take you seriously, hell, I don’t even take you seriously. But I brought you on anyway. I, unlike the Deans of faculty at Harvard, Princeton and Brown, decided to take a chance on you–”

    “Yes sir, I realize that, but–!”

    “And you’re throwing it back in my face! I have never in all my years of teaching or running this institution witnessed a new professor fall behind so quickly. If your assignments and paperwork are piling up this early in the semester, imagine three, even our months from now. That’s not really a risk I’d be willing to take,” he said, lifting her file only to toss it back on the desk, this time with much more force. The papers scattered and her eyes widened as he struggled to collect them. It was disheartening that he was so disappointed in her, that her failures were already coloring his view of her abilities as an instructor. For as long as she could remember, Claire just wanted to teach. Even as she did her best to drown out his angry tirade, she could remember sitting in her room as a child, whispering to her dolls as she recounted lessons she’d picked up at grade school. She wanted to do a good job, to fill the minds of her students with every ounce of knowledge she possessed, to watch them succeed where others could not. But, because she was young, most schools wouldn’t give her a chance. And now she was blowing it at the only place that would. “–find it absolutely outrageous that you can’t even handle the most basic of tasks given to you. If this keeps up I will have to reconsider your–!”

    “Dean Hughes?” someone rapped on his door before pushing it open, successfully cutting off his diatribe. He gave her a peeved look as Claire choked back her tears. The last thing she needed was to cry in front of him, to show him how weak she really felt.

    “What is it, Professor Cole? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”

    “Yes, I’m well aware of that, but you’re going to give the woman a heart attack if you keep railing at her,” she said in a thick, Southern accent. The Professor in question stepped into the room and closed the door behind herself. As usual, Barbara Cole was dressed in an outlandish polka dot top, gray suit jacket and matching slacks. An older woman, probably in her late forties, she wore her salt and pepper hair in crisp curls around her face. A professor of Law, she was one of the first faculty members Claire had met on campus and she’d instantly taken the younger woman under her wing as a mentor. She only wished her limited tutelage had paid off.

    “Your point? What are you getting at?” Hughes demanded, his already finite patience wearing thin.

    “I just think she needs a little help, is all. She’s been in Pennsylvania all of what, a month? Why not assign someone to give her a hand? A student, perhaps. Someone who needs the extra credit or the community hours,” she explained. The Dean leaned back in his leather chair, his thick fingers drumming impatiently on the desk. 

    “I think I could live with that solution. Who do you have in mind?” he asked. Barbara smiled, giving her a wink as she placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

    “You teach philosophy, right, hun?” she asked and Claire nodded. “Don’t worry, I know just the person you need…"

    He was staring. Again. His gaze was so intense she was sure she’d be crushed under the weight of it. Claire leaned against her desk, trying to divert her attention from her least favorite student who, in turn, refused to take his eyes off of her. He did this during every lecture; interrupted her with asinine jokes, chatted loudly with his friends and stared at her until she was so uncomfortable she wanted to cry or flee the room. She just didn’t understand why. A brilliant Law student, Daniel Kang was every professors pride and joy, the literal prince of their university; but when it came to her philosophy class he simply refused to apply