She made it clear I would not be the last student supported.
Then she made it clearer that if the university thought a private deal and a signature would close this, they had badly misread the room.
A reporter asked if we were suing.
James said legal options were being explored.
A reporter asked if I regretted stopping.
Every eye turned to me.
My mouth went dry.
Then I heard my own voice.
“No,” I said. “Not for one second. If a school thinks I should have let someone die to protect my grade, then it’s not teaching compassion. It’s teaching cowardice.”
That clip went everywhere.
By afternoon, students were marching on campus.
By evening, professors were signing an open letter.
By night, the university’s social pages looked like somebody had kicked open every locked door at once.
The next Monday, Dean Morrison decided to go lower.
I found that out the hard way.
She emailed me and requested my presence at an “academic review meeting.”
Routine.
That was the word.
Routine.
Nothing in my life should have trusted that word anymore, but I still did.
I walked into a conference room expecting one dean and maybe one staff person.
Instead, there were five people seated at a long table.
Dean Morrison.
Three faculty members.
A university lawyer.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I had missed a stair in the dark.
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