After ten minutes, Rebecca realizes Hoffman isn’t going to stop anytime soon. And she can find no connection between the story he’s telling and the subject of the class, which is short story writing.

So Rebecca stops listening. Her eyes lose their focus, and she stares straight ahead. Her mind wanders, and she finds herself thinking of Madeline O’Brien. Ever since the night of Nye’s talk at the library, Rebecca has replayed the scene of the woman in the back of the room with the red hair, the one who tugged on her eyebrows. Rebecca wouldn’t say she knew Madeline well. They took one class together when Rebecca was a sophomore and Madeline was a senior, and while they rarely spoke to each other, Rebecca admired the way Madeline conducted herself. Professor Richter taught the class, and Rebecca thought she was brilliant, but Madeline spoke up frequently and didn’t shy away from openly disagreeing on matters both big and small. Rebecca never disagreed. She rarely participated. She liked to listen and write down her notes and absorb the discussion.

Hoffman finishes his story fifty minutes later and dismisses everyone.

Rebecca’s classmates appear to have been lulled into a stupor by the lengthy story, and they gather their things and shuffle away, yawning like sleepy children. Rebecca grabs her things and jumps out of her seat. She follows Hoffman out of the classroom.

“Dr. Hoffman?”

He turns, smiling. “Hello.”

“I wanted to ask you a question,” Rebecca says. “If you don’t mind. If you have a minute.”

“Sure. Come along. I always have time for an eager writer.”

He leads her down the long hallway, his pace languid, his legs propelling him forward as he says hello to nearly every student or faculty member he passes. When they reach his office, he pushes the door open and pauses. He looks around and lifts a giant stack of papers and books off one chair and points to it, indicating that Rebecca should sit there. Hoffman clears off another chair, and Rebecca wonders how the man sits at his desk if both chairs in the space are covered with crap.

“That was a great class, wasn’t it?” Hoffman says.

It sounds like a rhetorical question, but he watches Rebecca expectantly, as though he requires an answer.

“Yes, it was,” she says. “Awesome.”

“One of my favorite stories,” Hoffman says, leaning back, the chair squeaking. He folds his hands across his stomach and crosses one sneakered foot across the other. “I never tire of sharing it with my students. And they always seem to enjoy it. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“Well, I know you’re taking over for Dr. Nye, and I guess we don’t exactly know when he’s coming back.”

“I think it’s safe to say he’ll be gone for a while,” Hoffman says.

“Oh. Okay. Since he’s going to be gone for a while—”