Two chairs behind me, an old man dismantled a novel, page by page.
 
“You only get one chance,” he grumbled. “One shot.”
 
Rip.
 
“One term.”
 
Rip.
 
I craned my neck to see exactly what book he was tearing apart, but my view was obstructed by an Asian man I did not know was directly behind me.
 
His cell phone rang in his pocket and he answered in his native tongue, with the exception of one question.
 
“What’s the results?” he asked, then listened, hung up, and began to quietly sob.
 
“One term,” the old man growled.
Rip.
 
“One chance.”

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