THE MUSIC OF ANGELS
A young man was staring at the display case underneath the information desk in the lobby of the student union when Anna Harris marched in, took a seat behind the desk, and said, “You parked in my spot.”
He looked up at her. “Excuse me?”
She nodded toward the window and the parking lot beyond. “You were getting out of your car when I drove up.”
“I’m sorry — I didn’t see a reserved sign.”
“It’s there,” she said. “Director of the Student Union.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
Looking at him, Anna felt her temper fade. “Well, I’m not really the director. She’s out for the week and told me I could use her parking space. I run the information desk.”
He smiled. “Good to meet you. I’m Gabe Peterson, and I don’t run anything.”
“You’re a student?”
“Day student. Junior year.”
“Me too,” she said.
He seemed to remember something then and pointed to the display case. “Whose bell is that? It’s incredible.”
She bent down and looked in from the back side of the case. She couldn’t help smiling. He was incredible.
