Across the room a table of students has been watching me since I walked in. Not first-day staring. More considered — the four of them talking low with their eyes tracking me at intervals. One says something and another shakes her head and they look away.
I eat my eggs. Drink my coffee. Watch the treeline.
When I stand to leave a path opens in the crowd without anyone announcing it.
I walk through it and out into the cold.
***
Tomlinson moves the class into how transformation myths function as social regulation — what a community does when someone crosses a line it needs to believe is real. He asks the room what tools a community has when containment fails.
The student who argued last time goes first. Exile, he says. Removal. You protect the group by separating the threat.
Another student pushes back. That assumes the threat is external, she says. What if it was always internal. What if the line was never as fixed as the community believed.
The first student looks at her. That's worse, he says. That's scarier.
Tomlinson doesn't weigh in. He asks the room what they think and the room splits and I write down what seems worth keeping.
The rest stays with me.
After class the boy from the door yesterday is in the corridor again. He sees me coming and holds the door without the surprised expression this time. Just holds it.
***
Writing 101.
The room is half full when I arrive, Dr. Clary not there yet. Desks in a circle, students scattered through it — phones out, notebooks open to nothing, two girls near the window talking low. I find my gap and sit and pull out my notebook.
Becky is across from me.
She's been watching me since I sat down.
More students filter in. The room fills without settling. Someone's phone goes off and gets silenced. A chair scrapes.
Then Becky says, to the girl on her left, not to me, but not quiet either —
"Okay, but what have you actually heard about her."
The girl glances at me, then back at her. "She has her own cottage and a guard. But is the guard for her or for us."
"Right," Becky says. "But why."
No answer.
She leans back in her chair, looking at me without pretending she isn't now.
"Someone said dangerous," the girl offers.
Becky huffs a quiet laugh. "That's not a reason. That's a headline."
Her eyes move over me. Quick. Assessing.
"She doesn't look rich," she says. "I mean — look at her clothes."
The girl beside her glances at my boots. "Those are good boots."
"Sure," Becky says easily. "One good thing doesn't mean anything."
