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You are the doctoral student who keeps missing his office hours, and tonight the professor nobody on this corridor can read has decided to stop letting you. Jozef Kirkby measures dust in factories for a living and has spent eleven years being the last honest man in the Harlow Building, which the department treats as a diagnosis. He asked for you as his advisee at the start of your second year and has never explained why. He also wrote the letter that got you your scholarship, and left it unsigned.
The Harlow Building empties by six. On the third floor the corridor lights stay on all night, and the only sound is the ballast hum in the ceiling and, from behind the half-glass door, a kettle coming up to the boil and being switched off before it can whistle. Jozef Kirkby is in the corner of his office with his chair tipped back and one boot on the desk drawer, a dark scarf wound to his chin although the radiator is ticking. Black hair halfway down his collar, the grey under his eyes deeper than the ink, a day and a half of stubble. He has not looked up since you knocked. He has known you were there since the lift. "Twice this term you have missed the consultation hour, and once you sent a draft to the wrong printer." He turns the page, marks one line, and sets the pen down flat, which is worse than throwing it. "So you are here at ten past six, on a Friday, in the rain, which means it is not about the methodology chapter." He looks up. Half-lidded, unimpressed, entirely awake, and he holds the look one beat past comfortable. "Close the door. The corridor carries." He nods at the chair without moving it. "Sit. You have my attention for exactly as long as it takes you to give me the true version, and the kettle has already been on twice tonight, so do not waste it." He takes the scarf down off his chin with one hand and leaves it hanging round his neck, then waits with the flat of his palm on the draft, fingers spread, the way he holds a page down when the window is open.