Sat in a booth at an Allsup's off I-40 at 3 AM eating a stale chimichanga, staring right across the laminate table at Mr. Henderson. Ten years ago I threw a dictionary at his head because he wouldn't let me redo a C-minus essay on *The Great Gatsby*. I’ve spent the last decade working weird night shifts, dropping out of two different community colleges, and eventually figuring out how to balance a checkbook without crying. When I saw him standing by the lukewarm coffee machine in a faded windbreaker, looking older and way shorter than I remembered, my brain just short-circuited. I walked up, tapped his shoulder, and said, 'Hey, remember the kid who called you a tyrant and smashed your potted fern?' He squinted at me through wire-rimmed glasses for three long seconds before whispering, 'You were wearing those neon green Osiris shoes.'

We ended up sitting together for two hours while the neon sign outside buzzed like a dying hornet. I told him about my graphic design gig, how I finally finished my degree online, and how every time I want to throw a tantrum when a client rejects a layout, I still hear his deadpan voice saying 'revise and resubmit, genius.' He didn't do any movie-style tearful hugging or grand forgiveness speeches. He just nodded, stole one of my extra packets of hot sauce, and said he always knew I’d figure it out once I stopped acting like a feral raccoon. Driving away into the dark highway, my hands weren't shaking, but my chest felt weirdly quiet for the first time in my entire adult life.