Luna
I rush from the train station in Johannesburg, hoping to God that I didn’t piss off my supervisor. I run all the way to her office, which is on the other side of the grounds where the students are loath to go, because the buildings there look like they are haunted by ghosts of old professors who just don’t want to retire. I enter the old brown stone building and go straight to her office.
Her door is closed, which usually means that she’s not there. I knock on her door hoping she is in.
“Come in,” her voice reaches me through the door pane, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I open the door and walk into her office. Her office is neat and clean with every book and paper in its place, although it is overly full with books as many academics’ offices are.
My supervisor, Debbie is
