Lucy walked back in carrying a thick, brown envelope. ‘This is my life’s work,’ she said. ‘I wrote it in a hot foreign country when I was having a life-changing experience. I believe it’s the result of visions. I want you to read it and then we will perform it together in the college theatre. It is important to me.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t imagine we will be the same after it’s finished.’ She drew the envelope close to her chest, as if saying goodbye to it, and then thrust it at Natasha.

‘Do you want me to read it now?’

‘I must warn you,’ Lucy said, ‘it’s not a healthy work. I was heartbroken when I wrote it. It might unnerve you.’

Natasha shook the envelope.

‘It might make you question everything you know.’

Natasha sat down.

‘You can’t read it here,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t want to hear the conversation you have with it.’

Natasha left and walked back through the city in the early morning sunshine. She bought a small cup of coffee and strolled in the direction of the library. Natasha had avoided the library since the early days of first year when she had interrupted the tour guide to ask if the building was an ‘antique’ and the group had laughed at her. She tried to relax now, going back in, but her mouth felt dry and thirsty. When she thought of all the knowledge that had been gathered there, all the expensive jackets that had been carelessly draped on the backs of chairs, all the minds seeking Truth, she felt sick. She hurried to the first floor before she could back out.

The place was empty except for one boy, his head buried in a heavy book. He was sniffling and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Natasha stared at him. ‘College,’ she said, as if it had just been invented, as if she had invented it. She rolled her eyes to indicate her workload. The boy only buried his head further in his book, his loud snuffles cracking the silence.

Natasha took a seat near the studious boy and began examining Lucy’s play. She slid it out from its envelope. It was written on hotel stationery and long sections were illegible. On every page Lucy had crossed out the name of the hotel and written ‘Hotel of Lost Souls’ instead. On some pages the play veered into room service orders. It appeared to have been written in great haste. Several of the pages were damp from the sea or had gin spilled on them. In the margins Lucy had left little notes for herself like ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here!’