I woke up at 9:30 this morning. I have a 9:00 class on Fridays.

Worse, I have a 9:00 class with my boss, Prof. J.

It was my fault; I didn't flip the little switch on the alarm, apparently. Even though I distinctly remember doing so last night. Maybe I sleep-walked over and turned it off.

Anyway, I was still too tired to run, so I walked as fast as I could to class. This wasn't just any class I was late for. This class has a grand total of two officially registered students, of which I am half. The professor is my boss, the head of the Masters' program, and if I decide to stick around for a Ph.D., she's probably the prof. I'd want for an advisor.

The whole way to class I tried to plan out what I was going to say. Sorry I'm late, my alarm clock broke. I'm really sorry, but my alarm clock broke and I got hit by a car on the way here. (Is that one too implausible?) Sorry I'm...

There's a sign on the door.

"Class is cancelled. Prof. J is sick."

You know, fate is like one of those friends that keeps buying you really nice expensive gifts, to the point where you can't even enjoy the gifts any more because you just feel so damn guilty every time.