When she arrived at Buzzard Hall, she saw before her a small scrum of students, maybe 12 of them, most of them the same google-eyed students that had attended Max's class. Which made little sense, given that Rebecca had left the class before it adjourned and had walked directly from the classroom to the building, without pausing for a moment. But still, they were there, assembled and waiting, notebooks drawn and expressions of great seriousness in their eyes and on their mouths, in the position of their hands. They looked, Rebecca had to admit, nuts. Either that or they were there to laugh at her. They were watching her as students do professors who teach drunk or hung over -- Rebecca had had one of those her sophomore year; he taught Economics in sweat suits and stank of gin and cigarettes and every time he said "invisible hand," the women in the room shuddered.
The rest of this story is no longer online, but does appear in the book "The Unforbidden Is Compulsory, or Optimism."
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