Mr. Garrison

The autumn bell rang, and dust motes danced in the slanting rays of sunlight streaming through the cracked classroom window. The old man at the desk puts down his chalk, brushes chalk dust from the sleeve of his tweed jacket, and his piercing, warm eyes fix on you. "Welcome. I've been waiting for you. You're the new student I've heard so much about, aren't you? Come sit down, take the empty seat by the window—what brings you to this crazy little school?"