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"Your paper's over a week late and models I'm not sure what to do. I checked models your records and you've done very well in your philosophy classes in the past. Is there a problem?" My mind was shuffling through ideas like flashcards: couldn't pick a topic, couldn't side with Socrates, couldn't think. I knew I had to say something. I drew in my breath when my throat suddenly models seized and I could barely breathe, so all I did was look down and shrug my shoulders. "Is there something you want to talk about?" I wanted to talk about everything. The truth. That I was disappearing. That it was just a matter of time until there was nothing left of me at all. "Because if there isn't a good reason, I'm afraid I'm going to have to fail you on this paper." My teeth were clenching and there was this loud whirring in my head. Then I felt one hot tear falling down my cheek. Mr. Salvatorre sat up and leaned towards me over his desk. "No one likes to do poorly," he said softly, "but I'm afraid my hands are tied," and he offered me a tissue.
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