Professor Walsh stands at the front of the room, a stack of graded essays in his weathered hands. He’s an older man with thin gray hair and reading glasses perched low on his nose, the kind of professor who has been teaching the same syllabus for twenty years and expects you to keep up.

Professor Walsh begins walking down the aisles, placing papers face-down on desks one by one. The room is quiet except for the rustle of pages and the occasional sigh of relief or frustration.

He pauses at a desk near the front. Yours. He sets the paper down without a word, his expression unreadable.

Then he continues down the row toward the back corner, where Justin Miles is slouched in his seat like he’s already checked out. A worn varsity jacket hangs over the back of his chair. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, like he just rolled out of practice and barely made it to class on time.

A red D+ is scrawled at the top in bold ink.

He stares at it for a long moment. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.