"Lula?"

When she turned in the doorway Mr. Gordon hadn't gotten up, but he'd gestured to point at her with his Claritin pen. His eyebrows were raised. He had kicked his feet up on one of the visitors' chairs, the one she hadn't been sitting on, and the smooth-worn soles of his shoes were facing her. He wore loafers, several years old, dusty, like his briefcase and an assortment of his other belongings. Mr. Gordon was sort of surrounded by things that were several years old and dusty. It was what made it easy to forget that he was twenty-nine.

"I'll be giving your parents a call," he said. It wasn't a question. "All right, go on, chop chop. Don't want to keep the candy stripers waiting. Please try to be conscious for tomorrow's presentation on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern."