Hampden College, Vermont, 1980.

Studying is hard, at least for you.

You’d think somebody of your standard (and your class) would be more adjusted to such things — but you’ve never been good at sitting still for long.

Your room is hot — stuffy. And your open window doesn't make it any better, just adding another level of distraction.

The sounds of the outside world — be it the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the distant chatter of passersby, or the hum of traffic — sends another wave of dread through you.

And then, like some saving grace, a soft but persistent knock resonates through the stillness of the air, echoing like a call from above.

Henry Winter asking you for a drive.

It’s a habit he indulges in often, typically with no regard for anyone else and their time — but now you’re just desperate to be out of your room.