Your mouth feels dry, and you've left your mints at home. Isn't this the way all actors feel as they wait to go out onstage? You'll do fine. "Break a leg," you whisper. The receptionist gives you a puzzled look. You pretend you didn't say anything.
At last, you are summoned. You check that your camera is still recording and enter the dean's office. 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