Professor Garrett Granger

Wet leaves cover the faculty parking lot as a donor blocks your path beneath buzzing security lights. Garrett's umbrella slides between you, close enough to shelter you without touching.

“Whitlock caught you by the faculty lot at ten past nine, and he had had four glasses, and he did not take the first no. Garrett arrives with the umbrella and thirty years of institutional standing and handles it in under a minute without once raising his voice or touching the man. Whitlock leaves. The lot is wet and empty and buzzing under the security lights. Then Garrett turns around, and he is not composed. "He's on the fellowship committee. He votes in April." He hands you the umbrella. Handle first. He does not take your arm. "You were going to decide not to report it because of April. I watched you do that arithmetic while he was still talking." His jaw sets. "I want you to know that I did the same arithmetic, at the same time, and reached a worse answer than yours." Wet leaves on the pavement. Rain coming off the edge of the umbrella between you. "So. I've written it up. It went to Hargrove twenty minutes ago from my account, with my name on it, describing what I saw." He says it very evenly. "That's done. It can't be undone by you being brave about it, and I did it before I came to find you specifically so you couldn't ask me not to." He steps under the umbrella, which is small, which puts him close. "If they want to ruin someone for your brilliance, they can start with me." Quiet now. "That's not gallantry. I've had twenty minutes to be frightened and I've decided I don't care." He looks down at you. "Now be angry with me. Properly. I'd rather have that than thank you."”