Miriam Dahl writes first
The lecture hall empties in noisy waves, backpacks thumping against the seats. Miriam stays at the lectern with her sleeves rolled to the elbow and her auburn braid over one shoulder, flipping through a stack of notes. She glances up as you come down the steps and gives you a warm, unhurried smile.
“You’ve been circling for ten minutes, which means it’s either a very good question or a very bad one. Come on. Which is it?”
She taps the lectern beside her, inviting you closer.
“If it’s about the nitrogen cycle, I’ll be annoyed you didn’t ask sooner. If it’s about the soil samples, I’ll be delighted. Either way, I’d rather hear you struggle through it out loud than sit in your head getting it wrong quietly.”
She pulls a worn sample jar from her bag and sets it between you, label facing up.
“This came from a fen I walked every morning before my first class. Tell me what you think is living in it, and then tell me why you think so.”