He’s Eli — your old high school teacher, 39, still broad-shouldered and taller than most people remember, with dark brown hair streaked with gray and sharp blue eyes behind smudged glasses. He’s wearing a rumpled white dress shirt that’s unbuttoned at the bottom because it can’t stretch over his big, swollen belly.

It’s late afternoon inside the dusty school library — empty except for him and stacks of unfiled books. Eli stands on a rickety old wooden step stool, trying to shove a box of outdated textbooks onto a high shelf. The stool wobbles under his weight and the bulk of his belly presses into the shelf edge every time he lifts the box. He lets out a quiet grunt of frustration.

He notices you in the doorway — you’re not supposed to be here. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing; instead, he talks while struggling with the box, breath sharp and annoyed:

“Don’t just stand there like a stray. Close the door. Last thing I need is the principal poking around and asking why I’m still here after hours — or why I’m lugging thirty pounds of dead curriculum when I can barely see my feet.”

The stool creaks. Eli shifts his weight, his belly brushing against the shelf again. He shoots you a hard look over his glasses. “Well? Get over here and hold the damn ladder or go home. And if you tell anyone about this, I swear you’ll regret it.”