Page 11 of Boiling Point
Dr. Hawthorne entered precisely at eight, his stride buoyant enough to rouse the half-asleep class from its stupor. “Good morning,” he said, his voice rich and resonant as it filled the room.
A few mumbles greeted him in response.
“Tough crowd,” he mused as he placed his laptop onto the lectern and connected it to the dock. He scanned the still-sparse classroom with cool gray eyes. “I see more empty seats than I’d have liked this morning.”
A few students chuckled awkwardly. I watched him with thinly veiled admiration. Without the winter coat he’d worn earlier, his appearance was even sharper: crisp black button-down shirt, cobalt-blue tie, stone slacks with surgical creases, and polished black leather shoes that reflected the fluorescent lights. His style was formal but uncomplicated—commanding attention without demanding it. How had I missed that earlier?
“Before we get started,” he said, sliding effortlessly into professorial mode, “are there any questions?”
A student near the front shot his hand up. “Can you explain when it’s better to use a series circuit instead of a parallel one?”
Dr. Hawthorne nodded. “Excellent question. Let’s review the difference. In a series circuit, the same current flows through all components. That even distribution is the primary benefit, and you can control the current with a simple switch. The drawback is the lack of redundancy. If there is a break anywhere in the circuit, the current stops. You’re all probably too young to remember, but Christmas lights used to be wired in series. It was a simple, effective setup—every bulb received the same current, so the lighting was consistent. But”—he paused for effect—“if one bulb burned out, the rest of the string went dark.”
“So,” the student interjected, “in that situation, would a parallel circuit be better?”
“Yes,” Dr. Hawthorne replied. “Which is why modern Christmas lights are wired in parallel.” He pushed off the lectern and walked toward the front row of desks. “But that’s not quite what you asked. You asked when a series circuit would be superior to a parallel circuit. And that would be something like a flashlight. Two 1.5-volt batteries wired end-to-end give you a cumulative three volts of reliable, non-fluctuating power to the bulb, with a simple on-off switch to control the circuit. If it were wired in parallel, you’d potentially get uneven depletion of the batteries. And since you don’t need redundancy in a flashlight—it’s either on or off—you don’t need a parallel circuit.” Dr. Hawthorne stopped in front of the student’s desk. “Does that answer your question?”
The student nodded quickly, his unruly mop of dingy brown hair bobbing with his head. I took quick notes while Dr. Hawthorne spoke, but my attention was split between his words and the fluidity with which he delivered them. His voice wrapped around each concept with an easy command that left me half mesmerized.
“Any other questions?” he prompted, scanning the room.
No hands.
He gave a single nod. “In that case, let’s see what stuck during your first week.” He picked up a stack of papers from the demo table at the front of the room. “You’ll have ten minutes.”
There was a collective groan as he began to distribute what was clearly a pop quiz.
“Think of it as an opportunity to assess retention,” Dr. Hawthorne continued, tone even. “And too bad for your colleagues who chose not to come to class on Friday morning.”
The quiz reached my desk faster than I expected—three questions printed neatly down the page. The first asked us to compare series and parallel circuits—convenient following this morning’s review. The second was a question about calculating the net current of a circuit based on a diagram. I stifled a grin at the third question: Briefly explain the function of a capacitor in a circuit.
I glanced up, catching Dr. Hawthorne’s eye across the room. There was a flicker of recognition in his gaze—a flash of acknowledgment—before he dipped his head and returned to the lectern.
“Your time starts now. Bring your paper to the front when you’re finished.”
The afternoon crawled.
1:25.
Dr. Monroe prattled on—I couldn’t have told you the topic if you’d paid me.
From the second-floor classroom window, I looked out over the barren trees and brown grass that spanned the winter campus. My gaze hung on the science building across the quad.
I imagined Dr. Hawthorne in his office. Did he review our quizzes right away, or save them for later? Perhaps he had a meeting with Dr. Watkins, their contrasting styles an entertaining prospect to envision. Maybe he was meeting with earnest graduate students and research assistants. Maybe he was thinking of circuits and capacitors and—maybe—me.
A brief wisp of sun broke through the overcast sky, casting bold shadows that hinted at the clear weather promised for tomorrow—a perfect flying day if it held.
“And remember,” Dr. Monroe said, snapping me out of my reverie, “your first analysis paper is due next Friday. So you might want to pay attention to this section.” Her gaze landed on me, and I rushed to jot something down—anything that looked like I’d been paying attention.
Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to the projector screen and continued lecturing about research ethics in psychology and the horrific incidents that brought them about. She was tall with silky chocolate hair styled in a neat chignon. She wore a cornflower-blue collared blouse tucked loosely into a pair of bootcut jeans, her overall look effortlessly elegant.
Finally, the clock hit 1:50. “Have a good weekend,” Dr. Monroe announced as she dismissed the class. I gathered my belongings and rushed out of the room as quickly as I could without drawing attention.
The hallways were full of students streaming toward dorms and an early weekend, but I pushed my way through, bursting into the chilled afternoon. I hurried past the imposing administration center and over the mud-striped paths leading to the science building. My breath rose in brisk white puffs, dissipating into the steely sky above.
I darted up the building’s stone steps and slipped inside, slowing down just enough to seem composed as I made my way up to Dr. Hawthorne’s office on the third floor.
His door was cracked open when I arrived, and I lingered outside for a moment, catching my breath. He was at his desk, absorbed in a stack of papers that looked like our morning quizzes. There was something almost intimate about watching him unnoticed—the subtle concentration etched across his features, the methodical way he set each paper aside before reaching for the next.
