Late afternoon, the fifth floor hallway nearly empty. Far down the corridor, there’s one door ajar; the rest of the faculty offices are sealed behind opaque yellow windows. My professor, John Eakin, unlocks his door, and the two of us step inside and sit, he in a swivel chair, and I in a hard wooden one. My backpack thuds onto the tile floor. Over his left shoulder are rows of autobiographies and scholarly books on autobiography. He brings his hands up in front of his chest and presses his fingers against each other, making a see-through pyramid. His slack hair parts to the left; short, but somehow not neat, a few strands escaping. Glasses, a thin face.