Your scraped knee sure could use a wipe with a clean cloth, some antiseptic cream, and a Band-Aid. But the receptionist's sour expression halts your tongue. Anyway, there's little you can do now about the mud smeared from the hem of your pants up to the knee. You try crossing your legs in a way that will make it less conspicuous.
At last, you are summoned. Behind an outsize dark wooden desk sits a big bald man, frowning at the rumpled paper before him. It's your letter protesting your failing grade in temporal physics. The brass nameplate on the desk reads "Dr. Emory Green." Disgust curls the dean's lip as he throws his monogrammed pen down at your letter. You begin to understand why everyone calls him "Dean Mean."
You look to the side. There's Professor Thorne seated in an overstuffed brown leather chair by the window. Her cold eyes narrow, and so do her lips when she looks at you. And then you notice the other two people in the room.
Oh No