PEOPLE OF THE LAND Alistair Rey
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On my last day at Breckenridge I sat in the antechamber watching my father pace about in his usual fashion as he flipped through a magazine. My mother sat across from me in silence, her face difficult to read. Nobody said much, although I was conscious of the looks that passed between my parents from time to time. Eventually, the phone rang and the assistant informed us the chancellor was ready to see them. My father put a hand on my shoulder, indicating for me to remain seated.
I shuffled absentmindedly through the stack of magazines for a bit and threw glances in the assistant’s direction trying to see what her expressions or gestures might convey. Was it serious? If so, how serious? If she knew, her face betrayed nothing. I could hear
