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the lab. I sit in the waiting area and pull a loop of string out of my pocket. I cross it over my palms, then loop it around my thumbs and middle fingers. Thumbs tucked under. Lower index loop. Pull. Release. Twist. Loop.
    I glance up to find a small boy across the aisle watching me. I pull my palms apart and hold up the web of string laced between them.
    “It’s a rabbit,” I tell him. “See the two ears?”
    He studies the pattern for a moment, then nods and gives me a gap-toothed grin. The woman beside him smiles.
    I unravel the string and push it back into my pocket when Liv approaches.
    “All done,” she says, slipping her hand into mine as we walk back out to the car. “Can you drop me off at the bookstore?”
    “Sure. I have a few meetings on campus, but I’ll pick you up when your shift ends.”
    I drive to Emerald Street where the Happy Booker bookstore is located. After walking Liv to the front of the store, I start toward campus and detour through a residential neighborhood close to the lake. Older homes and bungalows sit close to the mountain, then give way to larger houses as the streets wind toward the town.
    I stop in front of a newer, Colonial-style house with a columned front porch and painted white shutters. It has a large yard bordered by trees and sits above a hill overlooking Mirror Lake. Well-maintained, expensive homes line the entire street.
    A woman is waiting on the front porch. She waves at me as I approach.
    “Dean? I’m Nancy Walker. Thanks for contacting me.”
    “Sure.”
    We shake hands. She gestures me to follow her into the house. It’s a huge, four-bedroom place with gleaming hardwood floors, cherrywood cabinets, and stainless-steel appliances. There’s a redwood deck overlooking the backyard with a view of the lake, a three-car garage, and a great room with a picture window. A study lined with built-in bookshelves sits just off the living room, which is dominated by a marble fireplace.
    Nancy gives me a complete tour and discusses all the amenities of the house. The school district is excellent, she says, with the highest test scores in the county, and the owners recently landscaped the front yard.
    “If you’d like to make an offer, I can write it up this afternoon,” Nancy tells me as she opens a door to show me the laundry room with a state-of-the-art washer and dryer.
    “My wife needs to see it first,” I reply. “But it looks great.”
    She beams. “It’s really a perfect family home.”
    Yes, it is. Reminds me of my parents’ perfect family home.
    I shake off that thought.
My
family will have nothing but the best.
    “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell Nancy as we walk back to our cars.
    She gives me her card and we discuss a potential offer strategy before parting ways. I head to the university and walk to my office in the history department.
    “Hello, Dean.” Frances Hunter, professor of American history and chairperson of the history department, stops next to me. With short, gray hair and a charcoal-colored suit, Frances wears her role as one of the most respected historians in the country with ease.
    “Afternoon, Frances.”
    “I just sent the announcement about your IHR grant to the university newspaper,” she says with a smile. “It’ll come out in next week’s issue, so expect a lot of phone calls and emails, both of congratulations and from prospective students.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You deserve this, Dean. You’ve done great things for this department in a very short time.” She hands me a file folder. “You have a light class load this semester, but you’ve already got waiting lists, especially for the undergrad course. That’s your current list of students.”
    She continues down the hall. I go into my office and leaf through the lists—one lecture course and one seminar, plus my continued planning of the interdisciplinary Medieval Studies conference King’s University is hosting.
    I open my briefcase to take out my papers. There’s a