Steve Leeb is a harsh mistress. Every night last semester, I would toil away in lab, trying to get my circuit to do what Steve Leeb said it should do, like shoot lasers, and not be on fire. Sooner or later, my vision would start getting fuzzy, and I’d remember I’d forgotten to eat dinner again. I would fold up my lab kit, and trek quietly through the institute’s hallways, until I finally made it back home.
And every night, when I opened my door, there would be, like, five people, just sitting there, in my room. Someone would ask me how I was doing, and I’d tell them, and he or she would give me a big hug, and I’d forget all about my circuit, which was probably burning through building 38 about now. They’d sit me down, and force me to watch a couple episodes of Pokemon, and we’d laugh at how bad the show was but how much we still loved it, and at some point, I would fall asleep. When I woke up, there would be cookies sitting on my desk, because someone knew I needed them.
This just happened, every night, because everyone on hall knows each other, and cares about each other. Our little hall is my family. I mean, that’s the whole point of dorms, isn’t it? Well, it should be.