Twyla stares down at her paper. The proctor just announced the next section to be filled out. Bubble, scratch. Bubble, scratch.  But Twyla didn’t hear her. She’s staring down at her signature. The curly-cue letter of her middle name, his middle name: Lee.

            The eager students on her right and left grip their pencils with the manic strength of malnourished teens with a desperate need for approval. Twyla mechanically holds her pencil and begins to trace the area around her middle initial. Over and over.

            The proctor circles the room like a hawk on the prowl and she stops short in front of Twyla. She raps the desk with her finger and Twyla’s head snaps up.

            “Shouldn’t you be writing?” The proctor asks with a note of disdain.

            “Uh. Y-yes. Mhmm. Just thinking.” Twyla offers her most syrupy smile and hopes that she will turn around soon and leave her alone.

            It works, and the severe dress pants of the proctor swish as she returns to her roost.

            Twyla stares back down at her paper and thinks about him. Where is he right now? Is he really gone? What if his spirit is in someone else?

            Her eyes scan the room looking at all the determined and tired faces, looking for a bit of him in someone else. But she is met with a pair of dull eyes here, a set of deep frown lines there, nothing. He’s nowhere. Twyla sighs and hopes her namesake imbues her with the strength to get through the test. She inhales his fortitude, and exhales her fear.

            Then, the pencil in her hand animates itself and her back straightens as she collects herself. Twyla begins to write. She writes about the world, herself, her family, her Pap, and she thanks God; for he is with her now.