From the author: They Might Be Windmills.
Jasmine said we should make a brief stop at her grad student office, so I got to see it after all. It was swank for a grad student office, which meant a bare room with windows looking out on a parking lot, four desks from the 1940s pushed against the walls. The only decorations were New Yorker cartoons and sticky notes addressed to Jasmine and three other names. They were all about the same: See me! Deadline coming up! Did you notice deadline? Deadline Friday! Call me.
Oh, advisors! Their...