Gemotions

"Come in, Michael." The words, spoken by the stern-faced Dean, seemed to echo in the cavernous office. Michael’s legs felt like lead as he took the chair opposite the desk. His throat constricted; it was hard to swallow.

The room was oppressively quiet, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Michael found himself compulsively straightening the crease in his jeans. The polished wood of the desk seemed to reflect his own strained expression.

The Dean placed a thick file on the desk, its cover ominously blank. Michael could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end.