I was in Prospect College’s faculty bathroom stall, my pants coiled around my ankles, my eyes focused on Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, the part where he describes how he escaped cannibalism, when I sensed the presence of Mary Beauregard, one of my students, standing just outside the stall’s locked door. How did I know it was her? Was it her familiar breathing, rasping and emphysemic from her chain smoking? Was it her familiar smell of mothballs and cloying talcum powder wafting from her green nicotine-stained skin? Actually, the tipoff was her signature neon pink luggage cart with her matching tote bag and backpack, which I could see beneath the partitioned stall.