It’s twenty-of three on the first Monday afternoon in May. Classes let out ten minutes ago or so, and beads from earlier-in-the-day’s rain cling motionlessly from the English Office window screen. One tall blonde girl lumbers across the otherwise inanimate Irish-green lawn in black leggings and purple knee-high Ugg boots, her hair hanging straight against the back of her maroon rain jacket. Behind her, maple leaves are beginning to bud on the Andover Town Green. She walks up the Stone Chapel steps and into the old Arts and Crafts building as the scene stills into a windless, muted, cumulo-stratus quiet. Inside, the medieval office heater throbs and dings and lurches its way to life. Everyone is apparently somewhere else. Either at sports or at some such activity or another. The stack of books and papers and coffee mugs on my desk hint at the frantic pace of life at Proctor—it seems we’re always rushing off to the next obligation—but the unpeopled sweep of lawn out the window suggests otherwise.