The morning air is still and all that I hear is the sound of leaves crackling under my feet and the crunch of the gravel road. My motorcycle died a mile back and after waiting for an hour, hoping that a car would pass by, I began walking. The Professor is waiting for me. He is sitting in his leather chair, book on his lap, looking out the window towards the road. He picks at the lint on his gray sweater and smooths the legs of his dark brown corduroy slacks. There is a rich smell of coffee in the house and upstairs, new sheets have been put on the bed. I walk slowly, measuring every footstep, enjoying the crackle of every leaf. The Professor is waiting.