He stared at the nearly blank sheet of paper. At the top in black ink, a standard quadratic equation. Months ago, it would’ve been quick work but that was before all the surgeries, and the lengthy hospital stay.
Now, he was trying to shake off the rust and make sense of these numbers.
There was a backup plan, though. One he would’ve never considered had his scholarship not been at stake.
He opened his palm, spied the blue ink on his clammy skin. But then came a heavy hand landing squarely on his shoulder.
“Need more time?” asked his professor.
The Weekday One Hundred 