After Glenn broke off each morning, Park would head into the school building by herself. It was easier than she expected to walk past her former teachers every day, neither avoiding nor seeking eye contact. Mostly the protesters seemed to ignore her, angling their bodies a little away from her as she crossed the picket line; it almost seemed like a silent agreement among them that they had expected her to come to class, that she should be treated as an exception. Park didn’t know if she felt relieved or unsettled—only knew that the adults avoided acknowledging her, looking down the street as if in a sudden reverie, and their shouts and chants died down until she was inside. It was like a busy stream of traffic slowing to let a wolfox cross the road, only to hit full throttle again as soon as the animal left the asphalt. Was it because everyone universally respected wolfoxes—or was it because roadkill was simply too messy to deal with?

The only other student who showed up for school during the protests was a small, dark-haired, thin-shouldered boy named Dataran Zinh. The name told Park that his parents were probably from Mars. He certainly acted like it: he startled easily at loud noises, he didn’t seem to understand basic Earth procedures. He had no friends, like Park, which explained why he bothered coming to class. Their new teacher, “Ms. Allison,” didn’t seem to register that 99% of its students were missing, and went on with the day’s lesson as usual. Its gray, unthinking eyes swept the room as it lectured, just as if the seats were still full. Park wondered if it was just putting up a front, to maintain status quo, or if someone had programmed it to simply accept the new class size as the norm.