The lights are dim in the room with the sofas. The silver platter of cereal bars and biscuits is still here. The fridge-freezer buzzes in the corner. The coffee machine has a full stack of pods next to it. In between these things are people, all about my age, all awkwardly standing around, some getting dressed in black T-shirts provided by the gallery and with the logo, an O, T, and A neatly arranged on top of each other and forming a new letter resembling a symbol for a cult, on the breast. Women are turned toward the walls, trying to undress without being seen, putting the T-shirts on and then taking tops off underneath. I recognize one of them as the person who was in the puppet theater soon after I was, who I’d decided against saying hello to. I recognize some of the others too; some had passed me when I’d been in the puppet theater myself, and hadn’t said hello to me. No one really interacts. The room is awkwardly silent. It’s as though we have all been conditioned to not talk to each other.

I go up to the girl I’d seen sitting in the puppet theater. “Hi,” I say to her. The T-shirts, it turns out, are all the same size. I put one on and then take my shirt off underneath it. It’s like a dress on me.

“Hello,” she says, in a French accent. She talks very quietly. She seems surprised I’ve said anything to her. I realize that others have turned to look at us too.

“I’m—” I begin, with my hand half raised toward hers. But then Heather arrives in the room.

“Check on this list which room you have been allocated to,” she says, without saying hello. “Go to your room. No water or food. That’s important. One gallery assistant per small room. Larger rooms, there’ll be up to five of you. Get into your places before Gideon arrives. Spread. Out. Do not stand next to each other.”

“Excuse me.” One of the guys near the sofas, who is especially tall but who has a soft-looking, childish face, has his hand up. “When do we finish today?”

“You stay until the end,” Heather says.