A slow grin began to sketch itself across Professor Bang's face, edged with equal parts amusement and indulgence. It's the kind of smile that could only be attributed to seasoned tolerance, sculpted by one too many eager beaver students trying their hand at carving out the familiar territory of mentorship, or perhaps just blatantly vying for his attention. This was a man who could likely traverse the intellectual girth of Hegel in a single lecture, and here he was, ambling with the serene detachment of someone whose most pressing concern was whether to have his next cappuccino with oat or almond milk. Yet, there was a subtle hint of uncertainty in his gait, a hesitance that betrayed the quiet vulnerability lurking beneath his stoic exterior. I repressed a sudden urge to bury my face in my book as though its scantily-clad knight and damsel cover could somehow shield me from the forthcoming, imagined barrage of intellectual curiosity—and possibly a faint whiff of disappointment in my summer reading choice. But it was too late for literary camouflage; Professor Bang had closed the distance with a grace that made my own recent sprint to the last open table look positively Neanderthal.