Kyle approached Professor Ayala's office carrying a cloud of butterflies in his stomach. Anticipation, desire, and the anxiety of uncertainty swarmed. All week, questions stacked on questions, with no answers in sight, and now he was back in the Humanities building not even knowing where to start finding answers. He stopped, two steps from her open doorway, heart hammering.

Someone in the professor's office was typing with a speed and intensity that sounded violent. Not a good sign. Kyle swallowed, girded himself. One step, then another, and Kyle saw his hand moving up to knock on the heavy oak of the open door, before he decided to knock. He stood in the doorway, facing Professor Ayala as she sat at her desk. The furious clack of keystrokes stopped suddenly, and the professor's steely blue gaze shot up and skewered Kyle in place.