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his pupils, and he stared down his nose at me before checking his watch. “Right on time. Good. Go to my office and wait there.”
    I bobbed my head, shuffled by him, and strode down the hallway.
    Halfway to the dean’s office, a panda with a feathered crest and vestigial wings attempted to climb the wall, pawing at a potted bamboo dangling from the ceiling. Since my hallucinations seemed linked with real people, I figured it was safe enough to greet the panda—and its potted friend. I said, “Good luck with that.”
    The panda huffed and flipped its middle finger at me.
    Since I was on a roll, I stared up at the bamboo plant and added, “Let’s hang around sometime.”
    “Sure,” the plant chirped.
    Maybe I could be taught how to cling to the ceiling like that; it seemed like a useful skill in my line of work. If Kenneth had his way, it’d be my only line of work. The thought soured my mood, and clenching my teeth, I marched down the hall.
    Terry Moore was waiting by the dean’s office. Like the dean, he still looked human, although his eyes burned; flames roiled in place of his irises. Heat radiated from him, and I halted a discreet distance away.
    Maybe the heat or the changes to his eyes weren’t real, but I’d perceive the pain. I’d learned that lesson long ago. If I started screaming because of non-existent burns, everyone would know something was up.
    Once the hallucinations subsided, I was going to sit down and have a long talk with Kenneth about how his stunt negatively affected my ability to do his dirty work. If what I was on was anything like the other drugs I’d taken before I’d gotten my head out of my ass, I’d be seeing things for months—maybe years.
    “I told you not to come,” he snapped.
    His breath smelled of smoke. I shivered, resisting the urge to pinch my nose closed. “What can I say? I’d like to finish my Bach studies. Suck it up, pretty boy. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
    One day I’d learn taunting the elite wasn’t wise. Maybe.
    Terry Moore scowled. “And what, exactly, do you think I might learn from you?”
    “Basic math skills,” the dean said from directly behind me. “You are in no position to criticize Miss Daegberht, Mr. Moore. You hold the dubious honor of having the lowest allowable grade here. I recommend adjusting your attitude, else you will be restarting your Bach studies from year one. No matter how many donations you give to the college, I will not permit you to graduate to Master studies if you can’t demonstrate a full spectrum of skills. Don’t make your crowning achievement here alienating one of the few individuals who might be able to turn you into something other than a waste of air.”
    When Terry snorted, a plume of black smoke burst from his nose and shrouded his face before rising to the ceiling in a cloud. It stank of rotten eggs.
    Throwing up wouldn’t earn me any points, although if I did, maybe I could claim sickness was responsible for my odd behavior. I swallowed several times to force my stomach to settle.
    “If I were you, Mr. Moore, I would be grateful for the opportunity to convince Mr. Smith you are an asset to his business rather than a liability.” Opening the door to his office, the dean waved us inside. I waited for Terry, careful to keep out of his way so I wouldn’t get burned. He took the seat he had before.
    It smoked beneath him, and the fumes of burning hair strangled me. While tempted to breathe out of my mouth, I coped.
    Kenneth was waiting for us, perched on the edge of the dean’s desk. There was a young man with him who reminded me of my boss in so many ways, right down to the way he smirked.
    “You took your time,” Kenneth stated, his tone devoid of emotion. I tensed, my gaze shifting to my boss’s mouth. His cheek twitched from how hard he clenched his teeth, and he scowled. Picking up a thick stack of papers, my boss slapped it against the dean’s desk. “I want basic information about the people