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loaded question game.
    â€œOf course it will,” I say. “I can certainly make you pay attention if I can manipulate your emotions. Who earns more handouts? An able-bodied transient, or one without legs, injured in the war?”
    â€œThen what?” Zoe says.
    â€œIt’s because,” I say, “ethos is the only one of the three that belongs to you . Pathos and logos reside with the speaker. Ethos is your idea of why, how, or to what extent I should be believed.”
    One of them turns around and looks at the cop. Intuitive. I’ve seen him with Zoe, before and after class. David? Something.
    â€œWhat did I say, before, about speaking?” I say.
    â€œWe’re only ever talking to ourselves,” David says, returning his attention to the class. The cop has wandered off.
    â€œSo if ethos belongs to you,” I say, “how do I manipulate it?”
    I motion for a cigarette from one on the first row. He gives it hurriedly.
    They are quiet. Cars move, people chat on the sidewalks above, or in the empty space around our classroom.
    Finally: “You don’t?” Zoe says.
    â€œWhich is why it’s the most important—the most dangerous. I want what’s yours, but you cannot give it to me, so I will do everything I can to make it an advantage, not a weakness.”
    â€œIncluding deception?”
    â€œOf course. Now, hand in your introductory essays.”

    â€œYou didn’t bring your essay?”
    â€œI did it,” Zoe says. “It’s just not here.”
    Of course. Can I run back to my dorm room? My computer froze. No, I don’t have a copy.
    â€œCome see,” she says.

    Recruitment is a discipline unto itself. Governments, revolutions, and religions know this. It is an application of rhetoric—how to align someone’s disposition with an ideal, an action, which is usually anathema to personal fulfillment. How do you convince a suicide bomber? How do you sell laundry detergent? How do you sell university enrollment?
    You don’t. Nothing can be described, nothing portrayed or sold, in any fashion that induces action. You sell, instead, a worldwithout your product. You sell longing and regret, which are cheap. You sell hindsight, insurance—which is nothing but a life without.
    Which is why, then—when they made us recruiters, when they forced faculty to turn away from their articles, and conferences, and evening dinners—it didn’t work. Enrollment is everything. The university needed more money. More students. More promises. And what is life without education? Never mind repossession, loss of self, being less than all you can be, writ large and terrifying. Universities employ salespeople whose job it is to sell un-education, to recruit. But they could only do so much. So the administration made us do it, too. Applied rhetoric. Education in action. Correcting perception.
    The first of many small losses of self.
    But the initiative came late in the term—handed down in departmental meetings I didn’t attend. Because I already knew. I was already giving out “A”s because why the hell not? The sciences were exempt—they were forced to secure more grants. To fund a better fertilizer, a new math, or cheaper bombs.
    I dialed the phone number printed on my register. Someone, somewhere. Adjusted my earpiece.
    â€œMay I speak to [name]?” I said.
    â€œIt’s pronounced [name].”
    â€œMy apologies. I’ve argued for IPA transcriptions.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMay I speak to [name]? This is Dr. Cade from Central University.”
    â€œOh! Yes. Hold on.”
    Muted scrambling. The university. Yes, to you!
    â€œHello.”
    â€œHello, [name]. This is Dr. Cade from Central University. I’d like to talk to you about our languages and cultural studies program.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œThis conversation may be recorded for training purposes. Is that all right,