When Lee and I sauntered through the doors of the Office of Enrollment at McMont College, we were immediately hit by a nauseating wave of smells—overbrewed, burnt coffee mixed with the musty tang of old paper and ink and the acrid bite of printer toner. It clung to the air like a stubborn ghost.
I leaned my forearms on the gleaming white counter, trying to ignore the olfactory assault.
Behind the desk sat a woman who looked like she’d been chiseled from a lifetime of sighs. Her nameplate read “Sonia Collinsworth.” She peered at me over the rim of her glasses like a hawk sizing up prey. Her knuckles tapped irritably against a bulky “personal computer,” as if it were personally responsible for her lot in life.
Her frame was thin, almost fragile, beneath oversized clothing that draped from her like curtains. Her face was lined, not just with age, but with quiet sadness—as if she had spent a lifetime in the background, watching others live. There was a stillness about her, a resignation, like someone waiting for the final chapter to be over and done with.
“What do you need?” she asked, clipped and weary.
I offered a polite smile and tried to mirror her professional tone. “I’m new to the area and hoping to enroll. Isthat possible?”
Her eyes flickered with something—annoyance, perhaps, or the exhaustion of routine. She stood and approached the counter stiffly, reaching beneath it to pull out a thick catalog.
“What are you interested in taking?” she asked, flipping through pages worn thin from with age and overuse. “We offer courses in Arts and Humanities—literature, history, philosophy, languages, and visual arts. Then there are the Sciences—biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics, and computer science. Or the Social Sciences—psychology, sociology, economics, political science, anthropology...”
“Archaeology,” I said with a small smile. “I like to dabble in the past.”
Lee snorted behind me, clearly amused.
Mrs. Collinsworth cast a disapproving frown at Lee before returning to me. She flipped through the catalog, her bony finger tapping a section mid-page.
“An archaeology degree, like the one we offer, progresses in stages. You’ll start with a bachelor’s, then move on to a master’s or even a Ph.D. if you’re serious. You’ll need to enroll in the Anthropology undergraduate program to begin.”
I leaned in, scanning the course list. Mrs. Collinsworth continued, her voice carrying the faintest trace of genuine enthusiasm.
“You’ll study archaeological methods, cultural anthropology, archaeological theory, ancient civilizations, and more. It’s quite the exciting program.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, eyes scanning across the page. “I’m... uniquely familiar with past civilizations. Is there a way to, I don’t know—speed it up a bit?”
She gave a small, clipped laugh. “You’d need to discuss that with your professor, dear. I wouldn’t know. But you might consider gaining field experience through internships, volunteer digs, or summer excavations. That would give you a head start.”
“Oh, yes. I’d love that,” I said, a little too eagerly.
She nodded, then seemed to catch herself softening and composed her face again. “There’s a lecture now—Jacobson Hall, Room 14. Just out this door, across the green, and it’s the building on your right. Someone’s speaking about early civilizations. Whydon’t you go listen in? Come back if it sparks your interest, and we’ll start the paperwork.”
A tight, fleeting smile appeared and vanished from her lips.
Lee and I exchanged a glance.
I shrugged. “Why not?”
I thanked Mrs. Collinsworth, and we stepped out into the spring sun. The walk across campus was quiet, the air crisp and full of blossoming life. As we entered Jacobson Hall, our footsteps echoed down the corridor, the white-speckled tile cold beneath our soles.
Voices drifted from around the corner—sharp, emotional. It was not the kind of academic lecture I had expected.
I reached out and clutched Lee’s sleeve. “Do you hear that?”
He rolled his eyes. “I hear many things,” he said, shaking me off.
But I pointed toward the open doorway. Laughter. Jeers. Then a voice—strained, defensive. My breath caught.
“That voice… it sounds like John James. What if it’s him? What if that’s his brother?”
Lee cocked his head, listening.
Then, without a word, Lee bolted toward the room.
“Lee!” I hissed, chasing after him, my pulse thundering in my ears.
