‘You watched it?’

‘Not in any prurient way. I needed to know what we’re dealing with. What the nature of the situation—’

‘Get the fuck out of my room.’

‘Lena, please, I only—’

She stood. The bag dropped to the floor, her hand singing in relief. ‘Get the fuck out of my room. Now.’

And the RA did. Not another word. Not a backward glance. How easy was that? She didn’t even feel bad about it. About telling the bitch to leave, that is. All the rest of it … Bad didn’t come close. If she could tell herself to get the fuck out, she would. Stupid ugly desperate whore. Get the fuck out.

Lena slept badly, woke a few times thinking she was still at the hospital, remembered she wasn’t, remembered as she had every night at the hospital when she woke that whatever time it was there were people watching her fucking Josh, some of them jerking off to it, many of them laughing or pretending, like Jules, to be sorry for her. By the time morning broke she had accepted she must go to class. It was just like after Dad died. People would stare openly. Other people would pretend not to stare but in a way that made the effort obvious. A few would broach the subject with squinted-up eyes and a tone that would make you want to punch them, hard. They’d say, I heard. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you. And what she would do was ignore the stares, say, Thanks. I appreciate that. What I really want is to get on with things, get back to normal. And she would. It was like after that singer pissed herself on stage during a televised show. She just kept showing up at things and, in time, everyone moved on.

So: Introduction to Classroom Management at 10 a.m. She dressed low-key—jeans, t-shirt, grey hoodie—but took time with her hair and make-up so she looked well rested and natural and like nothing in the world could be wrong. Even so, she arrived early, hoping to avoid walking into a roomful of people who had probably seen her bare tits, heard her pathetic panting. But the building was locked—the lecturer had no idea why, had to stomp off to find someone from maintenance.

By five to ten more than half the class was there, leaning solitary against the wall or forming jostling knots around the door. Some murmuring, others laughing loudly. Lena tried being one of the wall leaners, earbuds in, eyes closed. The surety that the murmurs, the laughs were about her grew each second. Eyes open, pretending to focus on her phone, then really focusing on her phone because there was a message from Nic saying, Social worker at 12. Will you be in class? Okay if you are just thought I’d ask.