And now, she thought, idly fingering the buttery brown leather arm of the chair she’d inherited when she’d taken over the department, now here she was a dozen years later, a full professor and department chair to boot. And soon to be dean of faculty, if she didn’t screw things up. And poor, plodding, shortsighted Harlow? Harlow was still an associate professor. He would be an associate professor when he retired. (Soon, God willing.)

“Well, here’s what he wrote,” Harlow droned on. “’Sorry, prof, not my day.’ This was in big block letters, then he drew one of those, what do you call them, one of those Happy Faces, and wrote ‘Have a nice day.”

He looked up, thick-witted and impenetrable. “Can anyone tell me what to make of that?”

Callie was weary of the conversation, but she leaned forward with what she hoped looked like eagerness. “But can’t you see that, looked at in the right way, that’s his attempt-faltering, tentative, to be sure-to open up communication? This is our chance to respond, to show him that we care, that we can be nurturing as well as censuring.”

“Nurturing…?” Harlow echoed opaquely. He really, truly didn’t get it, didn’t even understand the words. The others weren’t much better.

“He is twenty-eight years old,” ventured Will Martinez, who couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older. “You’d think-”

Callie decided it was time to assert her authority. Enough was enough. “I’m glad you’ve all shared your thoughts with me,” she said briskly. “I’ve learned a lot from listening to you, but it’s clear to me we have a way to go here. I think we should devote our team-building session Thursday to some hands-on training in nondirective counseling. I’ll ask Dr. Mehrabian from human resources development to put us through some problem-solving role play. Does that make sense to everyone? Does anyone see any problem with that? Is there any feedback?”