“Hello,” he says. “I’m Mr. López. I’m your science teacher. In this room, you’ll be learning about the world and how it works. About the things we know, and the things we’re still figuring out.” He scans the room, meeting their eyes. “If there’s one thing I hope you learn this year, it’s to pay attention to everything around you. Don’t take anything for granted. That’s what science is all about.” He’s been working on this speech for years, dropping a word here, refining a phrase there, but he doubts the children are listening. They’re sizing him up in other ways: his accent, his gestures, his clothes. Deciding, as unconsciously as animals, whether or not he is part of their pack. “I thought we’d start by getting to know each other,” he says. “Raise your hand. When I call on you, tell me your name, and what you want to be when you grow up. I’ll write it on the board, so we can all learn something about each other.” A flurry of hands shoot up; most stay down. “If you don’t put your hand up now, I will call on you later. But there’ll be less space left on the board, so you’ll have to be smaller. Hands up if you don’t want to be small.”

The number of hands increases slightly. He smiles and picks a boy on the right. “You were first. What’s your name?”

“Ben,” the boy says.

“And what do you want to be when you grow up, Ben?”

“A footballer.”

A predictable start. “Great. What’s your team?” As the boy starts to answer, Santi cuts him off. “Real Madrid, same as me! Cool.” Laughter from the other children. He turns to the board and draws a cartoon boy heading a football. When he steps back, some of the kids giggle. It’s not exactly a work of art. He always meant to spend more time on his drawing, to take his skills from adequate to impressive. But his doodles are enough to keep the children’s attention.

“Next.” He looks over the sea of hands. His eye is drawn to a girl with mid-brown hair, tall for her age, with stark blue eyes that look older than the rest of her. “You,” he says. “What’s your name?”

She lowers her hand. “Thora Lišková.”

“Lish-ko-va,” he repeats, copying her stress on the first syllable. “How do you spell that?”

She tells him. “It means Fox,” she adds with somber pride.

“Really? My name means Wolf.”