Kroff interrupts: “You told us on the first day of the workshop that we should try to write ‘memorable work’—right? So that is what I have done, and nobody else has done—yet you are trying to tell me, I think you are trying to tell me, that my work is not—memorable.”

“Well, no—I didn’t say that, Gavin. I wouldn’t say that. Your work is—it is—it is memorable. Yes.”

“So—what’s wrong, then? You don’t—” (pausing, unable to blurt out the words of hurt, anguish: You don’t praise me) “—‘get it’—I guess?”

“Maybe I don’t, Gavin. I’ve tried …”

“You have not tried. Did you think what I wrote about my brother was real?—or wasn’t real?”

No idea what to tell him. This angry, incensed young man. (Had he killed in Afghanistan? Was that his secret, he has been a killer and can’t bear it?) Wondering if there might be someone—anyone—in the corridor outside this office who might hear you if you called for help.

“He isn’t eight years old. Not now. He’s older, he didn’t die. I’ve got him trained. If I raise my fist, he pisses himself, he’s that scared. When he was a kid, I told him he’d never become courageous if he didn’t stand up to me, but he never did, he can’t. A beautiful baby, they called him. But no longer.”

Kroff is on his feet, grinning. He can see that you’re distressed by what he has said, which is either a revelation or a confession, unless it is a further obfuscation.

“His name is Luke. He’s what you call learning disabled. He loves me, he’s forgiven me everything. It’s like a joke—I’m God to him.”

Kroff pauses, breathing audibly. “Also, know what, ma’am?—I’m his guardian. Just nine years between us, but I’m his guardian, he is in my control.”

With a grunt Kroff slips on the backpack. Clearly he is enjoying your distress. “Did you think I was writing about myself, Pro-fessor? Me and my brother? Guess it’s pretty convincing if you and the rest of those assholes believed it.”

Waiting for him to leave. Calmly gazing at him, trying not to surrender to the pain gathering behind your eyes.

“Y’know, I don’t think I will be returning to the ‘workshop.’ Fucking waste of time. Imagine Rimbaud in a workshop—Nietzsche! Fucking funny.”

At the doorway Kroff lingers, as if he expects you to call him back.

“… disappointment. Waste of time. You’ve been a disappointment. Damned glad I didn’t run out and buy some shitty book of yours, ma’am. You and those assholes.”

Waiting for him to leave. Waiting for this ordeal to be over.

Almost you are counting the seconds until he will have left.