"Let’s pretend, for discussion purposes," Jaworski said, "that at one time there was a God."
The morning sun slid between the slatted blinds at the windows, striping the classroom with bars of iron grey in contrast to the bright slashes of light. The professor turned back to face his students. "What if there is some shred of truth in the theory, and the only difference between the scientific and the once held beliefs of centuries of theologians is the anthropomorphism of a cosmic bang?"
Jaworski eyed the rows. Two young women in the first row looked at each other with eyebrows raised; this is what they’d heard happened in this class. They giggled. A few looked up at him expectantly; others were writing notes. Of those that lounged against the back wall, sprawled in the sleep-deprived collegiate base of mediocre interest, only one stood out. A male, dark-haired and neatly dressed. He leaned forward on his desk, a pen poised on a copybook set at an angle before him, his attention fully on Professor Adam Jaworski. A cool line of sweat gathered and ran down his back. Maybe his luck would run out this semester.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology