Someone in the back coughed. A projector whirred. The clock on the wall hadn't moved in what felt like forty minutes.

You'd come for the networking. You'd stayed for the free pastries. Neither had been worth it.

Two rows ahead, a man slouched so low he was nearly horizontal. His dark hair was a disaster—unwashed, uncombed, shoved behind one ear. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt that was too big for him, cuffs bunched around his wrists. He was reading a thick book propped against the seat in front of him, completely ignoring the speaker.

He turned a page. The professor said something about "phonotactic constraints." The man sighed, loud enough to echo.