Wyatt placed a few sheets of paper—his petition I assumed—into a folder and then stuffed the folder into his bulging book bag. He squirmed in his desk as if he were going to rise and depart but then stopped, settled into his seat once more, and raised his hand.

“Yes, Wyatt?”

“There is one other thing I need some help with,” he said.

“Sure!” I smiled. “What is it?”

“This quarter all of my teachers here at Techno remind me of teachers I had before and really hated.”

“Hmm.”

Through the half-open door just a few inches to Wyatt's right I could see several students in the hall waiting to enter the room for the next class. Now and then one would peek in, see me, and retreat.

“No," I said finally. "I don’t really know what to suggest about something like that, Wyatt. Would you like to talk with a college counselor about it? I'd be happy to walk you down the hall and introduce you to the people at student services.”

“No,” he said.

Wyatt rose from his desk and left. I cradled my stack of handouts, papers, texts, and other materials in my arms and walked to the door where I stood and watched Wyatt walk down the corridor. When he had disappeared from view, I hastened to my office cubicle, deposited my stack of materials on my desk, and hurried directly to student services and to the office of the campus counselor for special needs. I'd known her ten years. Her first name was Roxanne.

“One of my students behaved oddly this morning,” I told her.

I gave her Wyatt’s name, the name of the course he was enrolled in, its number and section, the days and time it met, and told her what Wyatt had said. She listened politely as I related the conversation.

“Do you know Wyatt?” I asked.

“Yes, Wyatt is one of my advisees,” she said. “He does have a special need. I’m not allowed to tell you exactly what his special need is, that information is confidential, but I will arrange to speak with him.”

“Thanks.”