It's strange how easy I lose track of time. Growing old tends to have that effect; I'm sitting here, practically watching the tiny white boxes on the calendar standing for days disappear, only to be crossed out with a bold red marker by my young little secretary in the wee hours of the morning. Vital events written in the boxes just nulled, as if completing them made their time lapse unnecessary for memory. It was the same with my day planner, both the digital form organized by my secretary and the small book I carried around - times scratched out or scribbled over, little dates deleted, all passed, all forgotten.

It had only been a week since the semester began, yet to that old brain of mine, it felt like a day.

Today was no different than the usual mess, but at least I had time to myself for a few hours. It was just after noon, and the heat outside was picking up as college students and faculty members alike drove or bussed into the Collective campus town for lunch. A small piece of china lay in the far corner of my desk with crumbs of wheat bread scattered around it - it was a Monday, and I always chose to eat a roast beef sandwich for my own lunch. A simple mug of water sat on a marble coaster alongside an ergonomic keyboard and a flat screen computer monitor, the filmy layout playing a series of news clips from various news sources.

That was my usual ritual just after noon struck. Spend thirty minutes resting from the day-to-day management and attach myself to the real world. The office lighting was dimmed, the large windows were blocked out on either of the exterior walls, and the two doors - the entrance and the storage room - were cleanly shut. The old leather recliner I used for a throne creaked with ease as I leaned back, the smooth black walking cane shuffling behind it. It was peace. It was quiet. It was an escape from it all.

Of course, life wasn't ever simple, since I was boldly interrupted by a slamming fist on my door that followed with the banter of a student. A touch of a mouse shut off the news feed, and with a sigh, I responded to the boy as a red light blinked on my telephone. "Please, come in."

I allowed the boy to enter the office as I pulled up the phone, pressing it to my ear, "Yes Cynthia, he's allowed in. No, he did not have an appointment. I know, I know how you hate these things, but they happen sometimes. Yes, you're welcome to leave for your own lunch hour now. Tell the intern to start work up front now in case someone else shows up. Thank you."

I lightly planted the phone down on the receiver and glanced over the Knox student and recognized him immediately: one of the instigators from last week. Curious that he come to see me over "morale."

"Murdoch, wasn't it? Please, take a seat," I waved toward the two leather chairs that sat in front of my own desk as the blades of my elbowed pointed against the desk, allowing for my wrinkled old jaw to rest on those old, worn hands. I chose to stare at him for a while, let my calm old eyes ease whatever fire was in his stomach, before allowing him to speak, "Considering your antics last week son, it's interesting to hear you talk about the Collective's spirit as if you're some expert. But please, what's this idea of yours?"

Like any other guilty person, Murdoch's immediate response to unburied comments on the first incident stood in self defense. No matter how nonchalant his tone was, Ryker was making an excuse for the event, and that in itself was typical of children his age.

Still, he had an interesting idea.

I ignored his rebuttal and instead focused on the presentation, knotted hands tightening under my chin as I visualized the specific resources the campus would need for such a game. It was easily within the Collective's capabilities and would make for an ideal thaw to the sports department. Still, I was curious to see Ryker's own vision of the planning.

"Murdoch," I began, leaning back into the chair to rest as I stared out into the eastern windows for a moment before turning back to gaze at him, "You've caught my attention, but I'm not sold. Explain to me how we'd organize the various teams, who would run the spectators' needs, and how we'd fit such a demanding program into the schedule of each school. Remember that you can't have this for just one school if you'd like to restore everyone's ease - it has to include the entire campus."

The boy was impulsive. Typical.

The Director slid back into his chair with a look of surprise at first, his head titled slightly as if he were trying to analyze the boy's face for answers, before a faint, ivory smirk rose from his checks and a nod of dismissal passed over him. Planting his right hand on the desk as a form of body language, the Director chose to clarify his own situation.

"Murdoch, whenever a student has a lighbulb flash in their head and an idea miraculously orbit it that does not have any shape to it yet in the shadows, that's what I have faculty for. You don't bring a ten-second thought and judgment of a school you just transferred to and decide the highest ranking executive on the campus needs to hear you. You are damn lucky I'm in a good mood today son, or I'd have you kicked right out of this office with latrine duty."

The Director took a moment to inhale his thoughts before leaning forward to make his own demands his face surprisingly loose as a sign of his rare open-mindedness for the circumstance, "Now... if you want this activity to occur, you best show some more thought behind it than the summary. We'd need a student to act as the youth supervisor to begin with, and you'd make for such a natural choice. Now sell this idea or leave this problem of yours behind, because you only have one chance here.."