You decide to seek out student activism, a tradition almost universal to higher education. Unfortunately, you're stumped as to where to go. You sit on a bench and try to think politics.

 Politics... politics... hmmm... All you can think is government. Government means uselessness and bureaucracy. Maybe the student newspaper would have a better idea of politics than this.

 You find the Scarlet office and head inside. There's only a couple people there, and they seem more afraid than curious. One of them says, "Hey, I think I know you! How do I know you? Where are you from?"

You explain the amnesia, and everyone decides it would be a fun game to try to figure out who you are. All they're sure of is that you work for the school.

 Thirty minutes later you've been positively identified as Jack Foley. It is somehow comforting to know your own name, at last. You breathe a sigh of relief, and thank the plucky staff members of the Scarlet.^A

 You leave their office having forgotten all about politics and activism. You whistle. There's a spring in your step. Then you realize you're hungry. You instinctively grab for your wallet (a defensive reflex developed over many generations of affluent power-mongers), and what happens next is a blur...

 The sound of hands of leather... the flicker of plastic... a glimpse of a face behind lamination... a name... the same name... a card with that name again... it's... it's... Richard P. Traina, University President!

 You scream and fall to your knees as the memories come rushing back in. All your lessons from today are washed away in a tide of Trustee liaison meetings, cross-continental flights, mansion after mansion, dinners in your honor, golf with big shots...

 When you look up, all you know is, you're running for President, and you've got a campaign to take care of.

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