Pro-fes-sor. Uttered in a low drawl, with a twist of his lips meant to resemble a smile and a belligerent shifting of his gaze to your face.

Sometimes adding, as if he has just thought of it—Ma’am.

Twenty minutes late for the scheduled conference. So that you have been thinking with childlike naïveté—Maybe he won’t come …

Kroff has missed a previous conference with you, in this office. He has missed a recent class. He has hinted of a life of complications, responsibilities—(is Kroff married? Is it possible that Kroff is a husband, a father?)—from which he can’t easily detach himself, for the fiction writing workshop in which he is enrolled meets on Thursday afternoons, which conflicts, to a degree, with something else he is doing, or should be doing, which might have something to do with his status as a veteran (VA hospital therapy? rehab?) at an overlapping time.

Why then is Gavin Kroff taking the workshop if it represents a hardship for him?

Answer is, bluntly delivered, bemused pale-blue eyes and twisty smile, You, Pro-fes-sor.

Sharp rap of knuckles on the (opened) door of the office.

“Hello! Come in …”

Your greeting is friendly, matter-of-fact. Crucial for you to maintain a distance between yourself and the aggressive young man, who has indicated in many ways that he wants nothing more than to collapse the protocol of distance between professor and student, annihilate borders, establish intimacy.

Yet Gavin Kroff lingers in the corridor, stooping and staring. Though he has knocked on the door and the door is open, as the door is always open during your office hours and you have greeted him and invited him inside, still he appears hesitant, diffident-seeming. His face, almost attractive at a distance, seen close up is creased, suspicious. As if he were thinking—Am I too early? Is this the wrong time? Do you really want me?

“Come in, please. Gavin.”

Forcing you to speak louder. Smile harder. Utter his name—Gavin.

A name that is strange in your mouth, like a swollen tongue.

It is not an era in academic history when professors address students by their surnames: Mister, Miss. In this quasi-democratic era, first names are obligatory.

Assuring the frowning young man that yes, this is the time you’d set for your appointment. He is not early, nor is he (very) late.

Guardedly Gavin enters the office. He is tall, well over six feet, but moves with a slouch, head lowered and shoulders hunched, as if entering a force field that is intent upon repelling him, against which he must be vigilant.

(Because he is a war veteran? Because he has not fully recovered from being in combat? Because it has become second nature to him to distrust and fear his surroundings? Unless it was always Gavin Kroff’s nature to behave with such unease and suspicion, even before joining the U.S. Army and being shipped to Afghanistan.)