She found me raging in the university library about the lack of books, about the assumption that mature students could afford either the time to search for secondhand books or the money to buy them new.  I was raging, spitting derision for the place, for the expectations and hiding behind that rage from my fear that I had made a terrible mistake.  She saw my rage and didn’t hide from it, she knew it wasn’t aimed at her and wonder of wonders, what made me spiky and difficult to befriend for others became the reason she liked me.  She always knew that my rage had the energy to overcome my…