As we enter this scene, we see students working attentively. On their desks sit laptops. Students are editing essays from the past year before they begin composing their electronic portfolio. With temperatures in the eighties outside and all the computers giving off heat inside, the room must be stuffy, as the air conditioner has not yet been turned on. The two skinny windows have been opened to catch any hint of a breeze that may happen past, but that appears to be offering little comfort to the individuals inside.
We see our teacher sitting at her desk. Students have been bringing their laptops to her when they have questions, and she has stoically endured all of their innane questions: "How do I save?", "How do I open my document from this folder?", "What's a Reflection?", "Will you type for me?" Ever gracious, she patiently answers them all. During a brief reprieve, the teacher looks up to see a student in his desk, quite near hers. Something about this student draws her attention. She approaches him slowly. Her suspicions were affirmed. As the lights go up on the stage, we too see what has caught her eye.
The student, normally quite verbal and active, has fallen silent. He has instead been lulled to sleep, drawn away by the muses. His head, with all of the cornrows, has found a resting place on his keyboard. Let us listen in on the exchange.
Teacher, shaking him gently: There is to be no drooling on my laptops.
Student, defensively, if not somewhat haltingly: I wasn't drooling!
As the teacher does indeed confirm there was no drooling, she draws his attention to the screen. It is realized that as he was cavorting with the muses in a cooler locale, his face was depressing a key as he rested. From where he left off his conscious state, there were now two and a half lines of a single letter, a subconscious gesture that seemed apt. For if the audience could also draw their eyes to the screen, they would see this: