Dean Morrison folded her hands on top of her desk.
It was the kind of desk that looked like it had never known panic.
“Your final began at eight o’clock,” she said. “You arrived at eight-fourteen. The syllabus is clear. Late entry is not permitted.”
I swallowed hard.
“I know what the syllabus says.”
“Then I’m glad we understand each other.”
I stared at her.
At the framed degrees behind her.
At the photo of her shaking hands with some smiling elected official.
At the silk scarf at her neck.
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