Brotherhood of the Wolf

Chapter 1.2: Oh, Deer

I text Audra to just leave the house key under the doormat and hope that there aren't any prior damages that I'll now be responsible for without a walk-through. Quickly abandoning the idea of changing clothes in my car in favor of keeping at least some of my quickly decreasing dignity, I head back the way I came.

Per the GPS again, it's faster to drive, but I end up using most of my time looking for a parking spot. So much for the superiority of algorithms. Next time, I'll make sure to walk.

On the plus side, there's hardly anyone else around on this side of campus. Unlike the chaos up at the main gates, there are no kids searching for their residence halls here; only a few well-dressed adults are coming and going. I'm guessing they're faculty like me, although in my faded jeans, wrinkled Hellfire Club t-shirt and worn Birks, I look—and feel—anything but professorial.

Taking the exterior steps of the ivy-covered College of Humanities and Sciences two at a time, I pull open the large oak door. The familiar scent of academia—old books, dust, and that indescribable aroma of higher education—fill my nose. It's a smell that always brings me both anxiety and anticipation, and today's no exception.

Inside, the marble flooring, wood paneling and low lighting all add to the reverent feel. But I don't have time to dally about the aesthetics. I'm already late.

Helpfully placed signage on the walls leads me to the Dean's suite of offices on the second floor. Behind another set of elaborately carved wooden doors, sits the type of middle-aged woman you'd expect assisting a man in a top position. With her gray-streaked auburn hair up in a neat French twist, cat's eye glasses and a dress straight out of the first season of For All Mankind, she's hunched over some type of ledger.

I'm guessing this must be Patty.

"Uhm, hi. I'm Barlow Milligan and I'm here to see—"

"Dean Ward will be right with you, Dr. Milligan," she says, cutting me off before she even looks up. Putting her pen down, she stands and walks to the door behind her desk. "You may wait for him in his office until then."

I mumble a hasty 'thank you' as Patty opens and then shuts the door behind me. I am left alone.

I don't know much about Clayton Ward, but it's not for the lack of trying. The university's website was strangely devoid of information about the man who is in charge of this particular school in the university. As dean, he presides over hiring and curriculum decisions related to departments like English or politics, and even that of my own little corner of academia, anthropology. Yet there was no photograph or even a biography of Dr. Ward under the 'Leadership' section of the Packard University website other than a listing of his name, full title and area of specialty: cellular regeneration and gene therapy.

I read some of his papers and they're fascinating, if not overly ambitious. His scholarly interests are in no way similar to mine, but as an anthropologist, I am curious about the potential sociological effects we would see if any diseases are cured with gene manipulation if his research turns out to actually work. Not that a stodgy, old academic like I'm expecting him to be for a man in his position would care about what someone like me would think.

As I continue to wait, I'm taken aback by the hundreds and hundreds of books lining the shelves on nearly every wall in the office. Only the space for the two floor-to-ceiling windows straddling a now dormant fireplace lacks a beautifully bound leather tome.

Starting at the nearest wall, I run my fingers along the spines of a set of books that looks to be in Romanian. Above them are titles in French next to some others written in Latin. Although I can understand all three enough to identify a useful citation for my research, I couldn't imagine knowing each of those languages well enough to stock a collection vast as this.