The stench of chalk fills Sarah's lungs. Itching to open the window, she peers over the edge of her small island of books and out to the green lawn below. Springtime, come early this far west. How is it so hot in this room? She tugs absent mindlessly at her collar, this jacket is too high for her taste. Her fingers brush down, leaving a smudge of ink on her white blouse. Oblivious to all except the smell of chalk, how is it that the other ladies in this seminar can stand it? Surly she must not be the only one with a churning stomach. She leans forward, digging her fingertips into her temples. Hot, so hot. In another world, a fly buzzes languidly around the window. In another world, the professor is calling on her. She slumps forward. A hand is on her shoulder, and the world is spiraling forward into her hands as her breakfast biscuits churn.
Miss Turner? Turner? Sarah?
Black.
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