"When."
"Now."
"Okay," I say.
Dalton falls into step beside me and we head toward the admin building. Tomlinson's door is at the end of the corridor, warm light under it.
I knock.
"Come in," he says.
I go in.
Chapter eight
Alex
Tomlinson's office is warmer than I expected.
Books on actual shelves, not for display. A coffee maker on the credenza that looks used. Two chairs across from his desk, a window behind him facing the quad, afternoon light coming in low and grey.
He's at his desk when I come in, jacket on. He looks up when I knock and gestures to the chair.
I sit. Dalton takes his position near the door.
Tomlinson looks at me for a moment — the direct gaze I've come to recognize, no management in it.
"I wanted to talk to you about Becky," he says.
"Okay," I say.
"She's one of our best RAs," he says. "Reliable, perceptive, good with students who are having a hard time adjusting."He pauses. "She came to me this morning and asked to be reassigned from your case."
I keep my face even.
"She didn't give me a specific reason," he says. "Which is unusual for Becky. She's normally very articulate about her reasoning." He holds my gaze. "I'm not asking you to explain yourself. I'm asking if there's something I should know — something that would help me support both of you better."
I look at him. The honest eyes. The not-pushing quality of him, the man who told me I had space to breathe here and meant it without an angle behind it.
"She's fine," I say. "I'm fine. I know where everything is. I don't need an RA."
He nods slowly. "You're not going to tell me what happened."
"Nothing happened," I say.
He looks at me for a long moment. Decides not to push. "Okay," he says. "If you change your mind about wanting support, my door is open." He reaches behind his desk and lifts a gym bag onto the surface. "In the meantime — I heard your belongings situation is limited. We keep some basics on hand for students who arrive without notice."
He unzips the bag.
Workout gear — leggings, a thermal top, socks, all of it in dark colors, nothing that looks like it came from a supply room. Running shoes, my size, laces still new. And underneath, folded carefully, a parka. Heavy, properly insulated. Forest green — the deep solid color of the treeline outside my window.
I look at it.
The parka. The shoes. The thermal top folded like someone thought about how it would arrive.
"Thank you," I say.
He nods once. Doesn't add to it. "The parka especially. Alaska in February without a proper coat is a statement I'd rather nothave any of my students making." The almost-smile. "Even the ones who aren't technically students."
