He waited. 22 Minutes. He counted because that's the kind of man Marlon Walter was. He didn't tap his foot. He didn't check his phone every 30 seconds.
He just stood there, folder under his arm, and waited. When he finally reached the window, the clerk, a tired-looking woman with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, her name tag reading Patricia Gould, typed something, frowned, typed something else, frowned harder. Marlin felt the first small knot form in his stomach. "Mr. Walter," Mrs.
Gould said, not looking up, "there's a hold on your records." "I'm sorry?" "An administrative hold." She squinted at her screen. "From the office of student conduct." The knot pulled tighter. "There must be a mistake." "It says here it's a precautionary flag, pending resolution of a conduct matter." Marlin set his folder on the counter very carefully, the way a man sets something down when he needs his hands to be still. Four years, a 3.8 GPA, varsity wrestling, not one disciplinary notice, not one complaint, not a single letter, email, or conversation with anyone at this school about any kind of conduct issue, ever. "What conduct matter?" he said.
Mrs. Gould looked genuinely uncomfortable. "I can't see the details from here. You'd need to speak with the Dean of Students office to get that resolved." She slid a sticky note across the counter with a phone number on it. "Dean Willix handles those." Marlin looked at the sticky note.
Then he picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. His voice was flat, polite, controlled. He picked up his folder, turned around, and walked back out through the glass doors into the October morning. The knot in his stomach was still there, quiet and tight, like a warning he didn't have enough information to understand yet.
He stopped on the front steps and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a name he hadn't called in 3 months, Dr. Yvette Sanford, his old engineering professor. The one faculty member in this entire institution he trusted without question. She didn't pick up.
He waited for the beep. "Dr. Sanford," he said, "it's Marlon Walter. I'm on campus. There's a hold on my records, and I don't know what it is yet.
I could use your guidance when you get a minute." He hung up, pocketed his phone, then he set his jaw and started walking toward the Dean of Students building. He still had time to fix this. He was sure of it. He was wrong. The Dean of Students building was on the far side of the quad.
Marlon walked with his head up and his folder tight under his arm, mentally rehearsing what he'd say to whoever was behind that desk. He'd be polite. He'd be clear. He'd explain there was obviously some kind of clerical error. Show them his record and get it fixed before lunch.
Simple. Straightforward. Done. He was halfway across the quad when the cup hit him. It came from his left, fast and low, and cracked against the back of his head hard enough to sting.