High School classroom but it looks more like one from a TV sitcom and not an actually really real H.S. classroom. It’s test day – – or at least some kind of pop quiz. The fierce tension in the room suggests an exam though. Something folks know about, have been studying for, and still don’t feel ready for. I get there late (don’t know why) and take a seat up front, taking my copy of the test. I won’t be penalized for being late but I don’t get additional time to complete the exam. I dive in but the instructions are poorly written. I can’t make anything out for the hand writing and the questions full of misspelled words and sentence fragments crammed in worse than Beat literature. I can’t even start the test. None of it makes sense. PENCILS DOWN! – – the teacher shouts. He looks Indian and the first thing I think on seeing him is “Vish” but he’s too nerdy and reminds me of this stat prof I had. “You didn’t even start?” I’ve crumpled it up but resisted the urge to throw it. I look him dead in the eye and explain that Why would – – no – – How could I even start? Teacher points out that everyone else has finished. No one else appears to have had any problems. I throw my doubts into the ring. I point out the flaws. The errors. The omissions. How was I supposed to know to circle the answer and then write in a few sentences of explanation? The instructions don’t even read left-to-right. I get resistance from him. Like this is obviously a failing on my part. No one else had problems making out the instructions. How could he possibly be wrong?