True North

My office exemplifies order. Labeled shelves march along three walls. Their contents arranged by period, region, significance. Every artifact preserves its story in its assigned place—all except one. My hand glides across the empty space on the desk where my father's compass should rest in its worn leather case. Its absence throbs like a missing tooth. 

The compass survived three wars. My father's fieldwork. My childhood. Then thirty years of my own academic life and archeological digs. Dad taught me how to read that compass on a dig. His callused finger tracing the cardinal points. "True north never changes, Mare-bear. Even when you can't see the stars." The metal was warm from his pocket. 

My throat constricts. 

I've already searched the desk drawers three times. But maybe... 

My fingers scrabble through stacked files. Ravaging their careful order. I upend my bag onto the desk. Pens and papers cascading. 

Measured breathing ruptures into jagged gasps. I had it during yesterday's lecture. I know I had it. I used it to demonstrate magnetic deviation, just like Dad taught me—twenty young faces lighting up at the needle's dance.

"Dr. Thayer?" My graduate assistant Lucas appears in the doorway, clutching a stack of term papers. "Are you—" His words catch as he takes in the chaos, the careful order of my academic world scattered across the floor. "Is everything okay?"

I force my hands still. "Fine. Just looking for something."

"Oh, the maintenance crew was in here earlier. They said something about a water leak in the ceiling?" He points up at a dark stain in the corner I hadn't noticed. "They moved some things while checking the pipes."

My office tilts. Strangers. Touching. Disturbing. Another leak. Another loss. My mother weeping in the kitchen. Water dripping through the kitchen ceiling. Dad pressing the compass into my small hands: “Now here’s something water can't destroy." 

"They might have put things in the storage closet". Lucas points to its door in the corner. "They didn't want anything getting damaged if the pipe burst."

"When?" My voice wonky, just like my world. "When exactly were they here?" 

"Maybe an hour ago? They were still working when I went to lunch."

An hour. Only an hour. But long enough for the compass to be... anywhere. I brush past Lucas. Heels sharp against the glazed concrete floor. Tick, tick, tick.

The storage closet gapes open. A mausoleum of displaced objects. My fingernails burrow into my palms. Systematic. Be systematic. I reach for the first box.

"Dr. Thayer?" Lucas hovers behind me. "Should I help you look? What exactly—"

"The compass. My father's compass." I pull out a stack of faculty papers. Set them aside with trembling precision.

When I was twelve, on my umpteenth archaeological dig, the compass rode in my pocket, heavy with responsibility. "Keep us oriented, Mare-bear," Dad said, trusting me with the gridwork. I failed him. The compass slipped from my pocket—three hours of panic before we found it half-buried in sector seven.

"I'll check the maintenance office," Lucas offers. "Maybe they logged what they moved."

I barely nod, already pulling out another box. Behind me, a new voice: "Ma'am? Everything okay here?"

I turn to find a maintenance worker—Meg, according to her nameplate—watching me with concern. "My compass." I say. "It was on my desk. Small, brass, leather case.”

Meg consults her tablet and frowns. "We documented everything we moved. Let me check the—"

"It would have been right there. Next to the phone. It's always right there." My voice sounds outlandish. Untethered. Like the time I called Dad in the hospital and he couldn't remember my name.

"Ma'am, we need to keep this area clear for safety reasons. Why don't you let me—"

I ignore her. Drag out another box. Remember how dad would sit in his study teaching me how to maintain that compass. "Everything that matters," oil gleaming on the brass, "needs care, Mare-bear. Regular attention." His hands steady as a surgeon's. "You understand?" I understood then. Which is why I can't understand how I—

A metal filing cabinet grates against concrete as Meg pushes it back into place. "Nothing behind here." 

I lunge and start running my fingers along the other furniture. Searching for any gap where the compass might have fallen.

"Sometimes, the smallest things matter most, Mare." Dad's hands would guide mine through its care. "Like this scratch here—," rubbing a slight burr above E, “—got that the day your mother said yes."

"Dr. Thayer?" Lucas hovers in the doorway. "Security called back. They're checking the cameras, but..." He shifts his weight. "The system was down for maintenance this morning."

"Down? What do you mean down?"

"They're upgrading to digital. The whole quad was offline from six to noon."

I press my palms against my eyes. Calculate hours. Possibilities. Trajectories. "That's the only time I've ever—" My voice quavers. "I always put it right back. Always."

A student passes in the hallway. Glances in at the scene. Distinguished professor on her knees. Maintenance worker rearranging furniture. Graduate assistant stupefied. "Is everything okay in there?" she asks.

I ignore her. Crawl beneath my desk to look amongst the dust bunnies. That compass survived three wars. Four continents. My entire childhood. It can't just vanish. It can't.

I grab my phone. Jabbing at campus security's number. Fingers trembling. Those same trembling fingers. The same rising panic in the hospital waiting room. Calling everyone I could think of after Dad's stroke. The same feeling. Something precious slipping away. Standing helpless. Watching machines count his remaining heartbeats.

"I already checked with security," Lucas says. "They haven't had anything turned in today."

"The cleaning crew could have thrown it away, thinking it was just some old trinket." I sink into the nearest chair. Pressing my palms steady on the chair arms.

"Wait." Lucas snaps his fingers. "Weren't you carrying your tote bag during the faculty meeting this morning?"

The faculty meeting. Two floors up. In the conference room. I set my tote on the floor beside my chair. I stand so quickly the chair crashes backward.

The day Dad first let me carry the compass to school he said, "Take care of it, Mare-bear." My backpack bounced against my butt as I walked. Then horror. When I reached in at lunch I found the bottom had torn open. My things scattered somewhere between home and school.

But I'm already moving. 

The elevator's out of order—of course it is—so I take the stairs two at a time. Heels echoing through the stairwell. Imagining catastrophes with each step. Kicked under a radiator. Swept into a trash bin. Pocketed by someone who doesn't understand that brass can hold a father's warmth for decades.

"Dr. Thayer," Meg calls from behind me, still following. "The conference room's been booked since eleven. There's a dissertation defense—" I push through the stairwell door anyway. 

The conference room doors are closed. Through the glass walls, a doctoral candidate gestures at her PowerPoint. Her committee arranged before her like a tribunal. Just as they sat for my defense.

Dad had insisted on coming to my dissertation defense—despite the cancer. He perched his compass on the podium beside my notes. "For luck," he whispered. His hand trembled as he placed it there. "Though you won't need it, Mare-bear. Remember…”

"I know: true north."

I press my face close to the glass. Scan the floor around the chairs. Behind me, Lucas whispers, "Dr. Thayer, maybe we should—"

I'm already moving. Pushing the door open. Every head turns. The student at the podium stops mid-sentence. 

"Dr. Thayer?" Department Chair Wilson's voice carries a sharp edge. "What is the meaning of—"

"My father's compass. I need to check—" I drop to my knees. Peer under chairs. The controlled academic in me knows this is inappropriate. Unprofessional. Possibly career-damaging. But that self is also drowning in a big kahuna wave of catastrophic loss.

"Maris." Wilson's voice turns gentle. Using my first name for perhaps the first time in fifteen years. "Step outside with me. Please." Somehow, the gentleness makes it worse. Like the tone the hospital staff used when they told me Dad wouldn't recover. 

I straighten up. Smooth my skirt with seismic hands.

In the hallway, Wilson closes the conference room door. The dissertation student's voice resumes, muffled by glass. "What's going on? This isn't like you."

Heat climbs my neck. How to explain that my carefully constructed professional persona is built on the foundation of that compass? "I had my father's compass this morning. In my bag. It's... it's important."

Wilson studies me, then pulls out his phone. "I'll email the faculty listserv. Someone must have found it." He frowns at the screen. "There's already a message from the Anthropology Museum. They found a brass compass in the east parking lot this morning. It's in the director’s office.”

The east lot. Where I park. Where my bag must have... 

The world bullseyes into focus.

I'm moving before Wilson finishes speaking. Almost running now. The way I ran down endless hospital corridors looking for Dad's room. Knowing if I could just move fast enough, I'd make it before...

I was too late then. 

But not this time.

The Anthropology Museum squats on the far side of campus. Five minutes at a normal pace. An eternity at any speed.

"Dr. Thayer!" Lucas calls after me. "I can drive you—" 

But I'm already pushing through heavy doors. Into the campus afternoon. Autumn light turning everything to brass.

The Anthropology Museum's reception desk sits almost empty. A student worker, headphones in, scrolls on her phone. I slam my palm on the counter. She jumps. Yanking out her earbuds.

Each word storms out. "Someone found a compass. In the east lot." Please. Please. Please. 

"Oh. Yeah." She blinks slowly. "Dr. Reeves has it in her office. But she just went into a meeting—"

I'm already moving down the hall. Checking nameplates. Behind me, the student's voice fades. “—and she always locks her door!"

Her words are chasing me. After his funeral, the door remained locked on Dad's study. Mom said we'd go through his things "when it's time." But it was never time. And then Mom was gone too. And the study stayed locked until the house sold. Everything lost to medical debt. Everything lost except the compass. Everything except—

I round the corner and spot "Dr. A. Reeves" on a door. My knuckles strike wood. I wait one Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Strike harder.

The door opens. Dr. Reeves peers out. Her reading glasses dangle from a chain. "Yes? Oh, Dr. Thayer. How can I—"

"The compass. Someone turned in a compass."

She brightens. "Oh yes! Beautiful piece. Brass, early twentieth century if I'm not mistaken. Military issue." She crosses to her desk. Her fingers move with the precise care of an archivist. "I was about to bring it down to Acquisitions. We've been looking for period-appropriate navigation tools for the new exhibit on military cartography, and this is perfect. A providential find."

The floor slides under my feet. She doesn't understand. She sees an artifact. A specimen. A thing. I watch her lift the compass from her desk drawer. Hold it up to the daylight. Dad's fingerprints are somehow still on that brass. His essence still in tune with that clicking needle.

"Of course," she continues, "we'll need to process it properly. Catalogue it. Document provenance. But it should be on display by next month. You must come see—"

I snap. "That's my father's compass."

"Oh?" Her smile turns professional. "Do you have documentation of ownership? We'll need to follow proper procedures for any claims, of course. File the appropriate forms with the museum board. Though I should mention our acquisition budget is quite generous—"

Reeves slides the compass back into her desk drawer. "The museum has procedures. Without proof of ownership—"

The click of the drawer closing is like a gunshot. I lunge forward. Hands splaying over her desk. "Open it. Look inside the case. There's an inscription."

Dad's hands had shook with chemo when he painstakingly engraved that leather—with letters uneven but clear. "So you'll always find your way home, Mare-bear,” he said when he finished.

Reeves hesitates. Reopens the drawer. Lifts the leather case. Her fingers find the inscription.

"I see." She sets it down carefully. "Even so, this could be quite valuable to future generations of students. In the museum, it could teach countless others about—"

Years of academic restraint topple. I snatch the compass from her desk. Clutch it to my chest. "It's already teaching." My voice resolute. "It taught me. Every Sunday morning when Dad..." 

But Reeves has her phone already raised to her ear. "Security," she says crisply, "I need assistance in room 342. A matter of disputed property."

The whole world funnels into this moment. 

This choice.

Run? 

Stay, fight? 

Claim what's mine? 

Or lose it to this... toad, forever? 

My true north is spinning wildly. 

For the first time, I don't know which way points home.

"Just think," Reeves says, her voice honeyed with academic enthusiasm. "Behind museum glass, students could trace the entire history of military navigation. The brass work alone—" Reeves snatches the compass back from my hands.

I lunge forward. Fingers closing on empty air as she clutches the compass to her cardigan.

"Please, Dr. Thayer. This is unbecoming of—"

I circle the desk.

My hip catches a stack of papers, sending them cascading. Yellow forms. Grant applications. Acquisition records.

"The needle sticks sometimes." The words come from I don’t know where. "You have to tap it. Two quick taps. Then one slow. Dad showed me. Summer of '82, Lost Lake. You have to—" 

"That's museum property now." Reeves backs against her filing cabinets. "The paperwork's already being processed."

I reach for the compass again. Reeves sidesteps, surprisingly nimble. The leather case peeks from between her fingers. The edge of Dad's inscription just visible. 

Her office door swings open. Two security officers stand at the threshold.

"Dr. Reeves?" The taller officer steps in. "You reported a problem?"

I press my palms against Reeves' desk. Wood grain rough against my electrified skin. 

"Dr. Thayer was just leaving," Reeves says, still clutching the compass. "Weren't you, Maris?"

Dad's voice rises in my head: "True north never changes, Mare-bear." I straighten my back—years of academic poise warring with the wild thing clawing out from inside my chest—the compass cradled in Reeves' hands. Like a captive bird.

Breathe, Maris. Breathe.

I step toward Reeves. "Did you know," my voice finds its lecturer's cadence, "compasses can be affected by nearby metal deposits?" 

She blinks. Her grip loosens slightly. The academic in her can't resist the pull of knowledge. The security officers shift their weight, uncertain.

"The needle on this one has a fascinating anomaly." I move closer. Each step measured. Professional. Controlled. "May I demonstrate?"

Reeves extends the compass slightly. Scholarly curiosity overriding caution. "A deviation in the magnetic—"

I snatch it from her hands. 

Then I run.

Papers explode into the air. I shoulder past the security officers. My heels skidding on polished floor. I crash through the fire door into the stairwell.

"Stop her!" Reeves' voice echoes through brutalist concrete architecture. Heavy boots thunder behind me.

I kick off my heels. Bare feet slapping against stairs. Down. Down. Muscle memory from childhood games with Dad propelling me forward. The leather case bounces against my chest with each leap.

Three flights blur past me. My lungs burn. The exit sign bleeds red light across my vision.

I slam through the emergency exit. Alarms shriek. 

When I burst onto the campus green, October air hits my face like salvation. Students scatter when I sprint past them. Their startled faces smear into watercolors of shock.

"Dr. Thayer!" Lucas's voice cuts through the chaos. He's running toward me from the direction of my building. "What's happening? Are you—"

I veer away. Clutch the compass tighter. My feet find grass. Then gravel. Then asphalt. The east parking lot spreads before me. Cars glinting in the dying light.

Security radio static crackles behind me. "Subject heading east... Professor... museum property..."

I yank open my car door. Throw myself inside. My fingers shake as I jam the key into the ignition. "True north," I mutter, pressing the compass between my fingers. "True north, true north, true north."

The engine roars to life. Back-up lights paint the approaching security officers in red. I peel out of the parking lot.

The sun bleeds out over Lake Michigan. My car sits in the empty beach parking lot. Engine ticking as it cools. I grip the compass. Its brass warm against my palm.

My phone buzzes again. The screen shows seventeen missed calls: Lucas, Wilson, Campus Security, numbers I don't recognize.

A new text from Lucas: "Dr. Reeves won't press charges if you bring it back by morning. I negotiated. Please call me."

I trace Dad's inscription: True North - M.T. Letters more authentic than any museum provenance. Another text arrives. Wilson: "My office, 8AM tomorrow. This can still be fixed."

I step out of the car. Compass clutched to my chest. My bare feet sink into cold sand. Waves susurrate against the shore. A rhythm like breathing. Like those hospital machines in Dad's final hours. Marking time until there was no more time to mark.

I click open the leather case. The needle swings. Settles. Points across the dark water. Where Dad taught me to navigate by stars. Back when the world was simpler and true north meant only one thing.

"True north isn't a place," I whisper to the compass. To the dark water. To Dad's memory. "It's the direction you can’t help but choose."

I turn back toward the parking lot. The compass secure in my hands. Tomorrow will bring consequences. Negotiations. Compromises. Perhaps the end of everything I've built over decades.

But for now… I’ve found what I was looking for. 

And I know where I'm going.