She no longer knew what she was studying. Out of panic and blind fear, and an increasing pounding in her chest, she had taken to stuffing her ears with cotton wool so she couldn’t hear a single word in the gated community. It was the start of January and she spent most of her time sitting, completely still, in Front Square. She quivered with anger on the stone bench. Lately, her anger was an uncontrollable thing: it trailed her everywhere, making her ugly.

‘Natasha, your results aren’t up to scratch.

If you don’t do something now you probably won’t graduate.’

‘The unemployment building,’ Natasha said, with finality.

The unemployment building hung like a threat over the final year student body. They had heard various things: that it was a place where men smoked openly and hacked into their elbows; where paint peeled from the walls as if trying to escape; where their immune systems would be lowered and threatened by ancient illnesses. Many of the students were leaving for the outside world with confidence, heading for financial institutions, their family businesses. Whenever Natasha was sighted, the other students admired her careless style and seeming disregard for everything, but she was clearly marked. If anyone mentioned the unemployment building to her in passing, she simply said, ‘At least it’s honest. I find the college experience corrupt.’ Like a president under threat of assassination, she refused to show fear in public.

‘I know what fourth year feels like, Natasha,’ Professor Carr said. ‘It feels like the end of a party.’

‘I’ve never been to a party.’ She gazed out the window. The city was moving closer, the buildings pressing in on her. ‘I have a lot of self-control,’ she said, by way of explanation.

‘Okay. Well, let’s see if we can do anything about these grades.’

She continued staring out the window. ‘I can’t be saved.’

‘Where do you think your problems began?’

She thought. ‘The computer house.’

The computer house was a glass building attached to the library and, in the last year, it had become a symbol to Natasha of the college regime. The structure was a mystery to her. Most days, out of curiosity, she ventured up and peered inside at the productive people busying themselves around the printing station. Often she imagined herself walking into the computer house, opening a document, putting words on that document, deliberate, incisive words about the subject she was studying. Then, standing at the printing station, with complete attentiveness, waiting for her document. With the best of intentions, she stood outside and thought about going inside. Usually, she was running away before she even noticed she was running away. Her fear wasn’t fully irrational. The last time she had been inside, in late November, she had received an email from an account she didn’t recognise, describing scenes from her life. They were written like the darkest play – her uninspiring daily routine, her arguments with her boyfriend, one scene delivered in unfathomable poetic language – all ripped directly from her life. She hadn’t checked her emails since.