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When I finally heave open the stairwell door, I stop short. Dede blocks my way. “There you are!” she cries. “Where’ve you been? Why did you take the stairs? Are you okay?” “Come on.” She cups my left elbow in her right hand and guides me down the hallway. Thankfully, we don’t pass anyone. They’re all still downstairs in the moot courtroom celebrating with Dwight. We stop in front of my office and Dede holds out her hand. I fish into my pocket, find the office key, and hand it to her. She opens the door and gently pushes me forward. “Sit.” I walk around my desk and collapse into my desk chair. If I were still in private practice I could collapse on my couch, but the school can’t afford those amenities so I pull my footstool from under the desk and rest my feet on it, providing welcome relief for my swollen ankles. The message light blinks on my phone. I ignore it. Dede stands with her feet akimbo across from my desk and holds her arms out slightly, her palms open. “What the fuck just happened, M’lee? Jesus, of all people, Dwight Hurley?” I nod, then shake my head, a sign of my inner confusion. How could I have been passed over for the Chair in favor of anyone else, particularly Dwight Hurley? “Did you even know he was under consideration?” she asks. “Are you kidding? I didn’t even know he applied. Besides, the Dean pretty much promised me I would get it -- I thought I was the only one under consideration, but don’t repeat that.” I try to chuckle at my own naiveté. I sound more like an irritable baby than a wry, intelligent adult who can detach from a difficult situation and make light of it.
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