Gina may or may not take that personally, and she’s free to deduct from my payout if she does. I’ve wasted enough of my time playing descent Samaritan. It’s been a lackluster morning, and it’s starting to feel like a lackluster day.

But at least I’ll have 20 bucks by the end of it.

I won’t bore you with the details of my scholastic afternoon. Not that I’ve retained any particular moments from the six hours of introductions and syllabi presentations I’ve sat through. Many of the new freshmen are greyed out of the Rolodex of information that I keep inside my head. (Pretty sure I’m not the only one physically present in class but mentally taking the day off: our heads are wherever we woke up this morning.) Sometimes I see an old face that I recognize but can’t attach a name to. Other times I hear a name, but I can’t remember the face that belongs to it.

Forgetting things is a lot easier than you think. Keys. Parking spots. Bus passes. Lessons. Memories. People. It’s hard to retain them all, so to help us, we create a hierarchy for our priorities. It is a neutral reality that in someone else’s list, we might not make the cut. We are forgotten, but that’s not a bad thing. Not to me. We make ourselves the highest of our priorities.

If it ain’t obvious, I’m my largest responsibility. Which means I buy my food, wash my clothes, keep maintenance on my vehicle, pay my phone bills, and fill out my own documents. It also means that I have the lovely pleasure of shopping for a backpack that doesn’t smell like teenage morning sickness.

If I ever see that guy in the wheelchair again…

And I do see him again, sifting through his pristine bag in front of an open locker moments after the bell to my last hour rings. The end of school means anyone is free to loiter in front of empty classrooms and beside the red lockers for however long it’s allowed. I’d normally bypass both and head straight for my club meeting in the cafeteria, though this time there is no Playlist Locos to blare pop music while the custodians put up chairs and clean floors around our lunch area. So, with nothing to keep me going, I slow down while approaching his locker, allowing my boots to drag and squeak against the tiles.

I don’t know what my intentions are, and before I’ve reached his locker to find out, a stranger places a hand on his shoulder. He visibly flinches under the touch, recovering only after seeing who his addresser is; some girl with an unceasing smile and the kind of expression you get from adults in front of sick kids. Wheelchair dude looks like he’s trying to end their conversation by gesturing wildly with his hand like he’s saying hello, but what the movement really means is no, thank you.

Without bothering to see if the lockers beside me are in use, I stop my advance towards the exit and fold my arms.

I watch.