Malaise

Sleep came easy that night. Dreamless sleep that left me refreshed and feeling like my mental state had been bolstered, like a levy holding back the Mississippi Delta in New Orleans. I woke up early that day, as I had a class to assist with that morning.

At about 10:30 that morning, I stepped out of the 101 lecture hall, rubbing my temples and realizing I had forgotten to order new sunglasses last night, cursing under my breath as I walked into the cold sunlight, briskly walking back to Singh Hall, to drop in on Dr. Ortega. I sidestepped people, cutting through crowds of communicating coeds, blathering on and on about why they hated school. Imbeciles. Shouldn't have even been there, crowding courses and feeding more money into the pockets Directors on the Board.

Annoyed, I stepped through a side-entrance, messenger pack strung across my body, and started stepping through the white on white halls. I hated this part of the building. It seemed unfinished, like the builders had just left off once they had they basics of a college hallway put up. I hurried up to the stairwell, jogging up one, two, three floors to the set of offices on the top, where the department's teachers kept their hours, and where Dr. Ortega would be.

Her office was one left, then the second right, 3^rd on the right. When she was in, her door was open. It was not. I balled my fist and rapped twice, quick together, to raise her. No answer. Twice more. No answer. I tried the door, the chrome handle welcoming me. Locked. Odd. I checked the nameplate by the door. Dr. Ana Ortega, Ph.D, Department of Experimental Psychology. Quite attractive in print. On Friday, her hours in the morning were from 10:15 to 12:00. And I knew Dr. Ortega. She liked office hours. Shrugging, I turned away and looked for any of the other professors in the department. I found one easily after hanging a left.

“Dr. Byron!” I called. The older gentlemen turned.

“Wolf. Good morning. How may I help you?” His voice quavered, and as it did, jowls rippled back and forth, his breath coming in heaves.

“Yes sir, have you seen Dr. Ortega this morning?” Ever the gentlemen, I am.

“Ana? Why, no, I have not. She hasn't been in, nor did she call to say she was ill. As a matter of fact, I had Sal, my research assistant, call her several times this morning, to no avail. Quite rude of her, wouldn't you agree?”

“I wouldn't, no sir. She may be very ill. Or she may been hurt.” Dr. Byron's face lifted into a smile. It was like seeing a Jell-O mold grin.

“Indeed. Perhaps we should send help.” To this, I nodded.

“I think I may go to her house. It isn't like her not to show without calling.”

“I'd agree, but I can't, on the small point that it's not like her not to show at all.” I grinned myself, but inside, angst had returned to simmer just behind my diaphragm.

“I'd better do that, then, Doctor.”

“You do that, Wolf, my good lad.”

I hurried off, with the good doctor taking his time with his heavy, lurching footfalls. I needed to head back to the 500 building, and retrieve my bicycle.