Page 4 of Boiling Point
Her directness caught me off guard—so unlike the artifice or evasion I’d grown accustomed to hearing from students who darkened my door. I leaned back slightly in my chair and considered my response.
“Capacitors are tricky devils, but not nearly as devilish as they seem at first glance.” My tone softened, knowing she was likely out of practice but certainly not out of her depth. “Let’s take it from the top.”
She nodded, her expression one of complete focus. There was something surprisingly gratifying about having an audience of one.
“Think of a capacitor as a container—like a balloon—that stores electrical energy. It fills up when connected to a power source and then releases that energy when needed.”
The tension in her shoulders eased ever so slightly, though I knew she wasn’t entirely convinced.
“This ‘balloon’ effect allows capacitors to control the flow of electricity,” I continued. “They can release their charge all atonce or gradually. This is especially useful for things like camera flashes, where you need a sudden burst of energy.”
“That makes sense,” she said slowly, as if testing the words before committing to them. “So in a circuit…?”
“They function as gatekeepers,” I replied. “Balancing the current or providing bursts when needed.”
“I was making it too complicated,” she admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A simple gesture, and yet, I noticed.
“You wouldn’t be the first. It’s easy to get bogged down by the maths, but it makes sense when you understand the meaning behind the numbers.”
Another knock at my door. Surely not another student.
Bill Watkins, my colleague and resident of the adjacent office—tenured long before I’d arrived—stuck his head through the doorframe. “Hey, Cal, did you— Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Gabrielle turned to face him, and her eyes lit with recognition. “Hello, Dr. Watkins.” Her voice was sweet but not vapid or disingenuous.
“Gabrielle!” Bill exclaimed with a grin, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Camping out in office hours already?”
Her laughter was a quiet ripple, and it struck me as unexpectedly musical.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms casually crossed over his plaid jumper. “Gabrielle here was in Physics 111 with me last fall.” He turned his attention back to her. “Has Dr. Hawthorne learned yet that you’ll be a permanent fixture in his office until you’re satisfied you’ve conquered every concept?”
“Consider me warned,” I said, drawing Bill’s attention back to me. I couldn’t be sure, but Gabrielle looked relieved to have the focus removed from her. “How can I help, Dr. Watkins?”
“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He scratched at his beard, more gray than red these days. “I just wanted to know if you could make heads or tails of that cryptic email from the dean. We can chat later.”
“Of course. I’ll pop by your office when I’m done here.”
“Great!” He turned back to my student. “Nice to see you again, Gabrielle. Good luck with classes this semester.”
“Thank you, Dr. Watkins,” she replied with a slight dip of her head.
Bill turned to leave, then paused. “You’re in good hands with Dr. Hawthorne. He’s the brightest of us all.”
“Don’t lie to the lady,” I teased, shooing Bill out of my office. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Sorry about that.”
She blushed ever so slightly, her cheeks again flushing a lovely pale rose.
“Now, what else can I help you with?”
By the time I left the science building, it was pitch dark outside. The faculty lot lay under those ghastly sodium streetlights that washed everything in amber and gray. Every time I stayed late on campus, I felt like I was walking through a noir film—flat light, no color, no warmth.
I approached my car, the mid-January chill biting through my overcoat. The air carried a damp tension that always preceded rain—a North Texas specialty, where winter meant a dreary damp and bone-deep cold rather than snow. As I reached for my keys, a fine drizzle began to fall. That’s when I saw her—a figure standing under the sepia glare in the adjacent student lot. She was beside her car, its bonnet propped open like a defeated banner. Even from this distance, I recognized Gabrielle.
As the drizzle thickened into proper droplets, I pulled my umbrella from my satchel and unfurled it. Rain tapped against the fabric. I broke into a jog, footsteps sharp against wet asphalt, and came up beside her.
“Miss Clark,” I called, just loud enough to rise above the rain.
She startled slightly, straightening and brushing damp hair from her face. I lifted the umbrella over her head. The proximity to her—innocent enough—still kicked up my pulse.
