My Little Lamb  I'm at Brimson. I'm caring for a lamb. It's like my pet, or my little baby. I try to make it move along in the right direction, but it won't walk where I want it to walk. I pick it up by its front two legs and carry it where I want it to go. It bites me, but has no bottom incisors or canine teeth so it doesn't hurt. I'm trying to contact my psychology professor Jordan Clemens. I talk to my advisor Mary Monroe. Jordan is in the lunch lounge, his office is empty. Mary says I can go get him. I'll just wait. She says something about the Broncos having 71 players and a number of them getting to play. I sit on a couch in a lounge-like area and watch television. I need something to keep the lamb occupied. I take a hat and mittens off the lamb and pet its furry head, as if it were a little blond child. The lamb gives me a small pouch of gold colored plastic filled with plasma. It seems to be a toy from a baby to the lamb, and I put it back next to a second pouch that we'll need for something later. I know Jordan received my messages: he had notes on his desk indicating that he talked to both my dad and sister Heather, trying to get in contact with me.