Mist touches her forehead, her cheeks. A soft rain, the Irish would say. That is, rain that seems to fall both up and down at once. She is on the cobblestone path to the building that houses the humanities. Lysaght Hall, with its stone façade covered in red ivy, its steep staircases and random alcoves, suits their department of literature professors and writers. They joke about being in exile at the very northern edge of campus, but the truth is they like being outsiders. This part of campus doesn’t get many passersby. Though Maggie doesn’t mind the rain, she has been in Ireland for a little more than a year and has become enough of a local to enjoy winning one against the weather. She rushes inside and is already halfway up the stairs before the heavy door slams behind her. She is relieved to find her office empty. She and the adjunct professor with whom she shares the space keep to opposite schedules, as the office is too small for both of them to comfortably use at the same time.
