|Two young women in desk-chairs lean toward each other, surrounded by mustard-colored, concrete-block walls. Behind them, a row of narrow windows looks down on the fat pipes and ventilating fans of an adjacent dorm. Overhead, lines of florescent lights buzz and hum. Students shuffle toward their seats. In the dorm, one guy still in his underwear leans off his loft and talks to his roommate, who's reading Wired in bed.
A young woman and an older man, co-workers at the plant, walk away from a coffee machine, Styrofoam cups in hand. They're on break for ten minutes. The woman's face is slightly red. The guy looks sleepy.
Dean Bryant, a woman in her early sixties, stares out her office window. Her dark eyes, sunken at the center of a brownish withered hollow of skin over skull, are fixed on the blossoms of an apple tree.