In our first year, we spent an inordinate number of hours planning how everyone on our floor would simultaneously blast Carmina Burana out their window one evening. The plot was satisfying even if it never came true.
You would knock on my door out of the blue and ask me to sit with your candle while you fetched your finished laundry.
One thrilled spring night we roved the campus with the King's Crown troupe. In the middle of this expansive Tempest, a fairy tapped me on the shoulder so that I would make room for her to pass.
