I usually like the rain. But walking out of my house Wednesday morning, the rain felt hostile. Like the tips of sharp knives and pitchforks and they kept hitting me. The sound of the rain was dull and lifeless. It was 8:51 a.m. and only a handful of faces were on Locust Walk. Maybe they didn’t even have faces. Everyone’s heads hung low, obscured by their umbrella, their hood, their quiet. It seemed that everyone was on the verge of tears. After the initial waking up to see the results, and then the shower, and then the walk to campus, I still had dry eyes. It hadn’t sunk in.