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I rub my eyes and add an arrow to flip the words. Later, later, I need to finish.
Such were the many things they must have seen (I saw?) inside this place: a turned-over dirt grave, heavy footsteps pressed into the soil. Bodies littered the ground, and even the strongest warrior had tears in his eyes. Some were in states of advanced decomposition. All had torn throats, their bones cracked and shattered.
I waited.
A great screaming rose from the cellar and
“Lacie?”
My transcription focus is knifed by a soft voice. A Rare Book Room librarian, Evelyn, peeks out from a stack. She pushes her glasses up her nose, her mouth popped into a surprised O. She’s one of my favorites—she reminds me of a mouse, almost always dressed in a sherbet-colored pantsuit. Today, she’s in mint green with an eyeglass chain to match. Her pin says Ask a Librarian over a little white cat reading a book. Normally she’s jolly, but today her face is drawn, her brow knit.
“Don’t you have class today?”
“I do,” I say. “In just a few minutes, at eight.”
“But it’s eight thirty!”
“What?” Panic flushes my body, my breath winnowing to a single, tearing gasp. “Shit.”
I can’t rush, though—this book is too old, too precious, to endanger. I start to go through the labor-intensive process of repacking the book into its acid-free envelope, but Evelyn comes around the front. She places a hand on my shoulder, papery and warm.
“You go,” Evelyn says. “Drop your pencil in the bin. I’ll keep the book behind the counter for you when you’re back.”
A frantic “Thank you” escapes my lips as I stuff the transcription with damp hands into my pocket. I race to the lockers, grab my bag, and hurry out into the winter morning. It’s started to sleet, adding insult to injury, and I’m sliding everywhere. Undergrads watch me with the languid interest of zoo spectators. And I feel that way: an animal, all fear and stupidity, as I race past the library’s main entrance and toward the Classics building.
“Shit, shit, shit—”
I’ve never in my life been late for a class, especially not one I’m teaching. Bursting through the door, I hit the wall of fusty, radiator-warmed air with a staggering step, breathing hard. Dean Shea—Oh god, who told him—is standing in the hall, speaking with, predictably, Lyle. He catches my eye, a frown deepening on his forehead.
Slamming through the door, I find the room … completely empty.
Sucking in air, I toss my bag to the table and take my computer out with shaking fingers. This has never happened to me before, my brain keeps repeating. This is not something I do. I’ve never missed class, not even as an undergrad, not even when I was sick with the flu—and the one time I had to get my wisdom teeth out, I emailed the professor beforehand and got the class work, took the quiz online—but I’m the professor now, I’m the professor, and I missed class.
The school internet loads my inbox too slowly, and I growl with frustration, thrust to standing, and pace. It’s too close to the showcase. I haven’t even turned in my revised proposal. I haven’t heard from Arjun about my work; he hasn’t answered my emails. Maybe he thinks that I’m not worth his time. And if you looked at me right now, I think that would be judged true. I don’t think I’m worth anyone’s time.
Finally, the emails load, my heart battering the inside of my chest.
CLASS TODAY?
CLASS CANCELLED?
WHERE ARE YOU?
RE: MISSED FACULTY HOURS.
Half a dozen emails load all at once. There’s even one from Dean Shea, and another from Dr. Sims, both wondering at my whereabouts. How did this even happen? Why didn’t I get them on my phone? I dig my phone from my pocket and realize, sinking into my chair with a hot face, that it’s somehow on airplane mode.
I did that myself, didn’t I?
I close my eyes, fighting back tears. It’s all falling apart. God, I’m so tired.
When I open them again, I pen an email.
STUDENTS,
I’M SO SORRY FOR MISSING CLASS TODAY.
I sniff but the tears are already streaming down my cheeks. I wipe them with my arm and continue:
