“It was the first time I killed a man, so frankly I’m not eager to go back.”

Ms. Reardon blinked at the unassuming fifth grader in her office, “Matthew, I asked what you thought about going to college.”

“Yes,” he replied with a weariness well beyond his apparent years, “and I think my answer speaks for itself.”

“But you’re only nine…” she attempted to clarify.

He cut her off, “It has been nine years from the chronological date of my birth. Yes, believe me, I know.” Matthew sighed and appraised the room.

Seeming to collect herself, the school counselor took an admonishing tone, “You see, this is the sort of exchange that keeps getting you sent to my office. What does this make? Seven? Eight times?”

“Somewhere upwards of four hundred, but I’m not keeping close track.”

His delivery was too serious, utterly deadpan. He didn’t blink. She searched him for some sign of humor, tried to figure out what the joke was supposed to be.

Matthew just sighed, “Looks like we’ll have to do this one over too.”