Chapter Three

Wednesday;

The gentle breeze rustled through my hair as I sat on a weathered park bench, engrossed in my book. I finished my lectures for the day, and though I promised myself I'd head straight home, the lure of the park proved too tempting. The walk had been long, but once I slipped in my AirPods, the journey felt effortless, the rhythmic thud of my shoes against the pavement blending with the soft tunes in my ears.

Normally, I'd be driving, but my car was stuck at the mechanic's, getting repaired after someone rear-ended me while they were distracted by their phone. So for now, I was on foot unless Aunt Grace's car was free, which wasn't often given her work schedule at the hospital.

I savored the tranquility of the park, the rustling leaves, and distant chatter of families, until the peace was shattered by frantic yelling. My head snapped up, just in time to spot a medium sized dog barreling across the grass at full speed, heading straight for the pond. Behind him, a young woman chased after, breathless and panicked.

"Tuna!" she screamed, her voice tinged with desperation. "Get back here!"

I blinked, stifling a laugh. Tuna? Who names their dog after a fish? But there was no time to ponder that oddity—the dog, a hairy little thing with floppy ears and muddy fur, made a spectacular leap and splashed straight into the pond. Water erupted around him, ripples spreading out as he paddled happily.

The woman skidded to a stop at the water's edge, her face a mix of horror and exasperation. "No!" she cried, her voice catching as she watched her soggy pet gleefully swim in circles. She glanced around helplessly, her hands fluttering in frustration, completely at a loss on how to retrieve her waterlogged troublemaker.

Maybe they named the dog Tuna because he loves swimming like a fish, I thought with a smirk, closing my book and leaning back to watch the show. The dog, now fully visible as a soaking wet Border Collie, was having the time of his life paddling around the pond, blissfully unaware of his owner's distress.

The young woman, still panting from her chase, hovered at the water's edge, waving her arms and calling for him with increasing desperation. She clearly had no intention of wading into the murky water herself, and her attempts to coax him out with gentle words were met with playful splashes. Tuna wasn't budging.

But then, in a flash of inspiration, she dug into her bag and pulled out a small treat, waving it enticingly in the air. The moment Tuna caught sight of the snack, his ears perked up, and he scrambled out of the water, shaking off droplets as he trotted over to her, tail wagging furiously. He sat obediently, dripping wet, and stared up at her with eager eyes, waiting for his reward.

Just as she was about to hand him the treat, Tuna's attention suddenly shifted. His eyes darted to me sitting on the bench, and before either of us could react, he bolted in my direction, muddy paws churning the grass.

"No, Tuna!" the woman shrieked, breaking into a run once more, her steps frantic as she chased after her mischievous dog. But Tuna was determined, and within seconds, he was at my feet, showering me with wet, joyful nudges and sending droplets flying everywhere.

The woman skidded to a stop beside me, hands braced on her knees as she struggled to catch her breath, her cheeks flushed from the chase. I was gently petting Tuna's wet head, my fingers weaving through his drenched fur as he gazed up at me with those dark, expressive eyes. "I am so sorry," she panted, shaking her head in exasperation. "I don't know what's gotten into him today."

I laughed softly and waved her off, not minding the dog's sudden affection. "He's a beautiful dog," I said, scratching behind Tuna's ears as he leaned into my touch, his tail thumping happily against the bench. The woman finally sat down beside me, still slightly out of breath, and reached over to ruffle Tuna's fur. "Thanks, but he's not actually mine. I'm just the dog walker," she explained with a wry smile, giving Tuna a playful nudge as he nuzzled closer.

That explained Tuna's rebellious streak—no wonder he wasn't listening. I couldn't help but smile as I watched the two of them. For a moment, I let my mind drift, thinking of how nice it would be to have a dog of my own, but my aunt's severe allergies made it impossible.

I once had a dog when I was younger, a loyal companion named Boone. He was my shadow, always by my side, especially on the days when the world felt heavy. Boone was old when he passed, but he lived a long, good life, always ready to cheer me up in his own quiet way. I could still remember the way he'd press his warm body against mine when I was sad, as if he understood everything without needing to say a word.

✿

Thursday;

I found myself in the familiar confines of the lecture hall, the air thick with the anxious murmurs of my classmates. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting streaks of light across the rows of desks. As I glanced around, I noticed several students hunched over their quizzes, brows furrowed in confusion or etched with worry. A few tapped their pencils nervously, their eyes darting between the paper and the clock on the wall, clearly struggling.

It was obvious that some of them hadn't studied—or worse, had forgotten about the quiz entirely. Thankfully, I wasn't in that boat. I had wrapped up my studying on Tuesday and had only needed a light revision session last night to feel confident. I moved through the questions with ease, my pen gliding across the paper as I filled in the answers one after the other.

Time seemed to pass quickly, and just as I answered the last question, Prof. Montgomery's sharp voice cut through the room. "Time's up. Pencils down." She commanded, and the sound of pens dropping echoed throughout the hall. She strode down the aisle, collecting the papers with a cool efficiency, her heels clicking against the tile floor. Without missing a beat, she stacked the quizzes neatly on her desk, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Prof. Montgomery didn't waste a second. She ordered us to take out our books and notes, her voice crisp and unyielding. There was a shuffling of papers and the soft scratch of pens as everyone prepared themselves, heads bowed, eyes focused. The room felt tense but determined; no one wanted to miss a single detail of what she was about to cover.

As she began her lecture, she announced that we'd be writing quizzes on the previous lesson's material every session. My first thought was that it sounded like extra work, but then it clicked—she was forcing us to study consistently. Instead of cramming before a major exam, we'd be building our knowledge bit by bit, making the final revision much easier. It was actually quite clever, and I found myself appreciating her method.

Throughout the lecture, Prof. Montgomery would pause, scanning the room with her sharp eyes, and ask if we understood. She didn't move on until she was sure everyone was on the same page. A few brave students raised their hands, asking for clarification on points that were unclear. I was silently grateful; I didn't have the nerve to speak up—not after the humiliations I'd already faced in front of her. For now, I was content to let others do the talking while I scribbled down every word, determined to keep up and stay under her radar.

While Prof. Montgomery was absorbed in answering a student's question, I took a moment to study her outfit. She exuded a polished, intimidating elegance, dressed in black heels with striking red bottoms—a clear nod to luxury. Her hair was pulled back into a low, messy bun, strands of blonde-brown hair loosely framing her sharp features. She wore a fitted black suit, the crisp lines of her blazer accentuating her figure, paired with a pristine white button-up shirt that peeked through. She looked every bit the stern, no-nonsense professor she was known to be.

I couldn't help but marvel—and slightly wince—at her footwear. How did women manage to stand, walk, and command entire rooms for hours in heels without collapsing from the pain? I'd be limping within ten minutes, but she moved with the confidence of someone who barely noticed the discomfort.

Prof. Montgomery nodded in response to the student's question before snapping her book shut and setting it aside. She turned to her desk, opened the drawer, and rummaged around with a focused frown. After a moment, she pulled out a thick stack of papers and let them drop onto the desk with a dull thud.

Prof. Montgomery leaned back against her desk, her expression caught somewhere between annoyance and exhaustion. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if just the thought of what she was about to say was giving her a headache. "I am being forced to appoint a TA," she began, her voice edged with disdain, "and although I find most of you woefully incompetent, I need some volunteers."

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket. Not a single student looked eager to take her up on the offer. I highly doubted anyone was going to willingly sign up to spend extra hours under her watchful, critical eye. She gestured half-heartedly toward the stack of papers she had just slammed down. "On my desk is a form you can fill out with your details. You'll need to drop it in my mailbox by tomorrow." Her tone was flat, almost daring us to ignore the request. "Frankly, I probably won't even bother reading through whatever shit you jot down. I'll just check your grades from last year."

The lack of enthusiasm was palpable. If Prof. Vargas had made this offer, I might have actually considered it. My marks were decent, and she was at least pleasant to be around. But working closely with Prof. Montgomery? Not a chance. Spending more time with her was as appealing as walking barefoot on broken glass.

The room remained painfully silent, tension hanging heavy in the air. Not a single student looked eager to take a step toward the desk. Prof. Montgomery let out a loud, exasperated sigh, her expression growing more irritated by the second. "Unfortunately," she said through gritted teeth, "the TA will receive extra credit, much to my displeasure." That last bit was laced with a hint of bitterness, but it was enough to catch the room's attention. A rare opportunity for extra credit? In university? Now she had our attention.

The once-reluctant students suddenly perked up, a few exchanging curious glances. Prof. Montgomery dismissed us, and almost immediately, a rush of bodies swarmed her desk, each person eager to grab one of the coveted forms. I hesitated, watching as the stack dwindled. Did I really want to sign up? I could already imagine the stress, the extra work, the possibility of being pulled in on my precious day off. But extra credit... that could be a game-changer.

After a moment of deliberation, I snagged one of the last forms, stuffing it into my bag. I'd talk to Aunt Grace about it tonight and see what she thought. Being a TA might mean sacrificing my Tuesdays, and I'd have to be sure this was a trade I was willing to make.

✿

In my last lecture of the day, Mathematical Physics with Prof. Vargas, the atmosphere was a mix of idle chatter and distracted students. Some of us were hunched over our desks, scribbling away at the assignment she'd handed out, but many others were either scrolling aimlessly on their phones or whispering in small groups, clearly unbothered by the task at hand. Since the assignment didn't count for any marks, most of the class didn't see the point in putting in the effort.

She had planned something entirely different for today, but she'd forgotten her materials at home. Instead of admitting defeat, she quickly improvised, giving us something else to work on. Someone had the nerve to ask if we could just leave, but she quickly shut that idea down, mentioning that the Dean was prowling the halls today like a storm cloud on the verge of bursting. Not wanting to risk a run-in, Prof. Vargas kept us busy.

My previous lecture with Prof. Martin was a stark contrast. A chubby man in his mid-forties with a perpetual look of amusement, he radiated a laid-back energy that immediately set his students at ease. From my first class with him, it was clear he wasn't one to stress over attendance. He didn't care if you showed up or skipped entirely—his philosophy was simple: if you failed his class, it was on you. His explanations were clear and thorough, so if you didn't understand, it was usually because you hadn't bothered to listen. Prof. Martin was the kind of professor you couldn't blame for your own shortcomings; he laid it all out perfectly—you just had to be there to catch it.

I was just wrapping up the last question on my assignment when Prof. Vargas gave us the green light to leave. I didn't waste a second, shoving my notebook and pens into my bag in a rush and bolting for the door, eager to escape the stuffy room.

Halfway home, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out and saw Aunt Grace's name flashing on the screen. I answered, putting on my best cheerful tone. "Hey, Aunt Grace!"

"Val, honey, I'm at the store. Do you want anything?" Her voice was light, but it caught me off guard. I frowned, confused. "Wait, aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"I got off early today," she replied casually. "So, how about some chips? You want anything specific?" I kicked a small pebble on the sidewalk, nudging it forward with every step. "Takis, please!" I finally decided, already tasting the spicy tang of my favorite snack.

"Got it! See you at home," she said before hanging up. I slipped my phone back into my pocket, my focus returning to the pebble at my feet. I kicked it along the sidewalk, watching it bounce and tumble, trying to keep it rolling beside me as far as I could. It felt like a tiny game, something to keep my mind busy on the way home.

But on my sixth kick, I misjudged the angle, and the pebble skittered off to the side, landing far from my reach. I paused, staring at it forlornly before sighing and continuing on my way. "See you tomorrow, little guy," I murmured under my breath, hoping it would still be there for another round.

I hadn't been home long when I heard the familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway. I peeked through the window just in time to see Aunt Grace stepping out, still in her blue scrubs, her hair slightly tousled from the day. She was juggling two plastic bags, their contents barely visible through the semi-transparent sides—groceries and my beloved Takis, no doubt.

I opened the front door before she reached it, and we worked together to unload the bags, putting everything in its place. The mundane routine felt oddly comforting, a silent rhythm we'd perfected over time.

Once the groceries were put away, we sank into the couch, and I tore open the bag of Takis, the spicy aroma filling the air. We shared them between us as I recounted my day in detail, from the endless work to the professor's looming threat of assigning a TA. I hesitated before admitting, "I'm thinking of signing up for the TA position, but the problem is I'd be stuck with this rude professor." I ended my rant with a dramatic groan, slumping back into the cushions.

Aunt Grace considered my words, her expression thoughtful. After a beat, she turned to me with a small smile. "What did I always tell you when you first started volunteering at the hospital?"

I rolled my eyes playfully but answered without missing a beat. "Kill them with kindness."

The phrase was practically my aunt's mantra, something she'd drilled into me since the first day I set foot in the hospital. It was etched in my mind like an old proverb. And as much as I sometimes wanted to scoff at it, I knew she was right. Keep being kind to rude people, and eventually, their attitude might crack under the weight of their own guilt.

Maybe, just maybe, it was worth a shot.