Marco had charted out a schedule for his Monday morning that would put him safely out of harm's way by the time Jessica was lucid: a brisk morning walk to the Waterfront Pavilion to try more items on their menu, catching the bus to the Caltrain station, and a solemn train ride down south to who knew where. Maybe Stanford. No, too academic—a café then, one in the shadow of generational wealth but not within arm's reach. This time, he preemptively texted his mother: "going out today, call me if you need anything." She wouldn't. Anything that got Marco out of the house and out of their stash of popsicles was a victory in her book, and even if his experiences weren't definitively formative, they were something.

His Friday evening walk had been besieged by some sort of aggressive small biting insect while he passed through Foghorn Park, and he wondered what the sweat-drenched volleyball players had done to earn their mercy. That, he decided, was the end of his evening walks—and keeping a consistent sleep schedule to prepare for school couldn't hurt either. Like Zhuangzi's butterfly, he did not know if he were asleep or awake, and whether school were a waking nightmare or the inevitable end he vainly tried to speed-walk away from. And so he set out that fog-kissed Monday morning to where the ducks lived, not knowing when reality would rouse him.

This time, Marco saw the park sign tucked away in the hedges: Pavilion Park. That wasn't an interesting name at all, no wonder he'd forgotten it. Colloquially referring to the park as "I forget the name... uhh... the park with the pavilion in it" was sufficient for most purposes, and that freed up room for a more interesting name. And what was the park named before the pavilion was built, if there were such a past? Had it always been there through the ages? Had the local Native American population stumbled across it and assumed it was a monolith from an extraterrestrial civilization? No, this explanation was inaccurate: this part of San Sebastian had been raised from the waters by rich developers long ago. They were too wealthy to have salt farms where they lived, those were for the people down south or across the east, who in their perceptions probably still scavenged acorns for their daily bread. Here they were rich: they logged all they saw and sent it on the railroads down south, before they were too rich to need the railroads, before they were rich enough to choke the birds with smog, before artistry and pageantry had become one.

The Waterfront Pavilion (it was always referred to in uppercase, which made it more important than that dinky multi-million-dollar thing over yonder) was far humbler. Vice President Juliet spoke often about being the child of immigrants and of being the child of restaurant owners, in effect saying that she was exactly like them, them being whoever she was speaking to at any given moment—and especially if their parents drove BMWs, if their parents owned multiple restaurants across the Bay, especially if their parents were wealthy enough to install a koi pond in their backyard, and most especially if they were like her and were eternally grateful for President Frank, long may he live (that bit was her spontaneous eruption one student council meeting that made even President Frank blush, leading him to clarify President Frank was entirely content with his natural lifespan and did not intend for his portrait to be like the one in The Picture of Dorian Grey). Marco could feel the humility radiating from the lobster tanks he walked past to claim another single lonely table a bit too close to the bin where they dumped all the dirty dishes. Occasionally a dishwasher would scurry out from the kitchen and replace the bin with a clean one, and Marco assumed they went through many bins during their normal breakfast service.

"You want 腸粉?" a waitress asked him.

"A what? Sorry, I don't speak—"

"Pork, shrimp, or liver?"

"Pork, please."

"Good choice!" she said, putting a plate of rice noodles in front of him and gesturing toward a squeeze bottle of soy sauce on the table. This system of ordering proved convenient, and a few moments later Marco had a complete breakfast. As a kid, Marco had been a picky eater: certainly nothing squishy, certainly nothing gelatinous, certainly nothing that he could not identify. It was only after his parents had decided to call his bluff and only serve variations on Brussels sprouts one night that Marco had conceded his point and learned to eat like an adult. He had lorded this over many the Red Robin waiter, saying he was "a big boy," a fact that impressed until he had grown to match the size of his words, and then being a big boy didn't seem to impress.

If he had known that the Waterfront Pavilion had hosted many a backroom deal for club members—and once, had been where Vice President Juliet had begrudgingly extracted a declaration of love from President Frank—Marco would have thought this an appropriate place to invite Jessica or Priya for breakfast (he had a suspicion this place wasn't kosher). It felt like the sort of place Alphas congregated, both because of the discount and because they could breathe in the air and know that many had come before them. But why was it that they had never had the idea to come? Certainly it was their obligation to say "hey Marco, you're a middling Gamma, but you have room for improvement. Here, come where the cool kids will hang out—there you'll learn something." He decided it took a special state of mind to walk to breakfast when cereal was within arm's reach. Being an Alpha was a state of mind, and not a label on TigerTalk.

The cashier was the same as before, and recognized Marco. "My favorite Alpha, welcome back!"

"I'm not an Alpha, but thank you, sir," Marco said, handing over his slip.

"Juliet's mom is my boss. You want me to ask her, 'tell your daughter to give this kid a promotion?' Juliet used to come here and run all over the restaurant when she was a kid. You would have never thought she would become who she is now."

"It's really not needed."

"Ah, I'm just teasing you! I would give you the discount anyway."

Marco took the spare change outside and contemplated the fountain. Far too many abandoned wishes littered its bottom for all of them to have come true. He was too rational to believe in wishes, but a world with wishes was a comforting world, one where there was hope. Everyone knew the Tooth Fairy wasn't real: in that case, it was better to understand it was his parents' pretense for giving him candy money than to believe some bloodthirsty fairy sat on a throne of teeth, with a polished canine for a scepter. When he put it that way, it was a strange bedtime story to tell children, though no less strange than telling them of a witch who lured children with a house made of gingerbread, or stuffed animals who moved when nobody was watching. He wished for the weather to cool down and tossed his change in.

This part of San Sebastian kept its bus stops invisible: though the buses ran through the area, the stop outside the strip mall didn't have a bench. He'd mistaken the sign for a road sign at first, but found it in just the nick of time. Marco boarded the bus that headed toward the Caltrain station and looked through the fogged window at the elders practicing tai chi. He hadn't taken this bus line before, and was surprised to see the few others on the bus wearing business casual. These must be commuters, and not agents of the Matrix sent to prematurely end Marco's vacation. Someday, if Marco's fortunes didn't improve, he would join them.

Marco put back on his backpack and followed the faceless masses off the bus, past the card scanner, and onto the train. In a past life, the train could've carried coal or lumber; the joints connecting the passenger cars were made of exposed metal, relics from an era that prioritized function over style. Marco took a window seat and prepared to admire his beloved Peninsula from a new vantage point. Anatomy was never his strong point, but Marco imagined the train tracks as the Peninsula's spine, or perhaps an artery, with Heller as one tiny pimple waiting to be popped. It was deeper-rooted than that: it was a cyst that had to be dug out with a scalpel, no surface scraping or pinching could dislodge it. The train began moving, and Marco consulted a paper map to decide where to go. Far enough that by the time his friends awakened, they could not rescue him from his solitude.

He settled on Sunnyvale: it had "sun" in the name, and while with their recent weather he could do without another day of sun (the La La Land song immediately came to mind, and he imagined his fellow passengers climbing on top the train to dance), he preferred to go somewhere with an optimistic name. He had never been, to his knowledge. San Sebastian provided all he needed, by design, that unless he wanted to go into the hills where the really rich people lived, there was no need to leave. Though they lacked their own demonym, its residents knew their daily lives affirmed the existence of something greater. Marco set an alarm on his phone and let the rattling of the train lull him to sleep for a quick power nap.

He awoke just as the train rolled in, and his first impression of the town was the pillowy wave of heat that greeted him upon his exit. It was too hot for sweat to linger, for just as quickly as it formed, it was boiled away. It was a dry, desert heat that demanded all trek quickly through it, and gather under trees and patio umbrellas to eat and mingle in peace. The shadows would move, and people would scatter like lizards fleeing under rocks. Perhaps this wasn't the best place for a day trip, but it would have to do—he began his walk onward, to stake his claim at another cafe to work on his college essays. The sharp morning light cast everything in chiaroscuro.

Marco bought an iced coffee and sat down in an oak-paneled cafe with local paintings on the walls. There were a few dollops of extra paint on some of them, but the points got across; they were nothing compared to the portraits of the club leaders at Heller. President Frank and Vice President Juliet were first, and their portraits hung eternal, but after their year someone had raised the point that there was no reason why all the club officers couldn't have their own portraits, as perks of the job. So President Jamal and his cohort got portraits; glass panels were installed after someone tried splashing his portrait with celery juice, and after that it was decided that the portraits were to be temporary installations: a hall of club officers past was too much of a security liability. Marco had liked President Haneul's portrait best, but she had inevitably taken it home by now. Maybe next year's were up already.

This reminded him to check TigerTalk, and as fortune had it (where was Isaac to ask what the odds were), there was a message from President Haneul:

"Marco, thank you for our chat at the 99 Ranch. You have potential for greatness. Can you come to campus at 11 AM for an orientation meeting?"

No sign-off, no courtesy, nothing. He responded cordially:

"Dear President Haneul,

"Thank you for considering me for this opportunity. Your munificence will not be forgotten. I am out of town, and will be unable to attend in-person. Is there a virtual option available?

"Best, Marco Aguilar"

A hurried response from her followed:

"Marco, it would be unfair to the other attendees to allow a Gamma to attend virtually. I appreciate your consideration, however, and forgive you. Expect a message in your inbox later today with instructions."

President Haneul was a generous leader, certainly, but "munificence" was pushing it—though it was a good vocabulary word. Marco assumed her election had been an olive branch to the student body after President Jamal's reign, and "reign" was the best way of describing his tenure: he had been tasked with convincing the school things had always been this way and it was in their best interest to get with the program, which he had done by interrogating all who showed signs of sedition until they understood his lessons. Marco was a quick study; those who weren't became victims of the club's usual scare tactics that had matured an additional year. President Haneul's job, in essence, was to look better than President Jamal and therefore prove that their diligence under his reign had turned Heller into an utopia. They had always been at peace with the club; they had never been at war with the club.

It always came back to time, and that was the truest explanation for why President Jamal had been so much meaner, and why President Haneul was forgiven for doing the exact same things he did: President Jamal's year, half the student body remembered an Edenic land where students lacked ranks, and these were the juniors and seniors who were best positioned to attack the club from within. The student who tried defacing President Jamal's portrait was a senior, and only learned their lesson after some time in the stocks—was it any wonder, then, that when faced with such dissent President Jamal had to be a bit crueler? President Haneul had it easy. Time healed all wounds. Her year, only the seniors had memories of what had come before, and they were outnumbered; the upcoming year, everyone would be in agreement that they were all in this together, and that together was an utopia.

Marco decided to leave the air-conditioned cafe and go for an adventure to find lunch, which was a thankfully short adventure that ended next door at a Malaysian restaurant. There was certainly work to be done—there was always work to be done at Heller, since if there ever weren't work, more could be spun out of thin air like cotton candy for all to enjoy. By the time he finished lunch, he would certainly have some sort of login portal with stern warnings about information security, and pages upon pages of resources to sift through—Marco had never studied the club's literature seriously, and he wasn't looking forward to finding out that some errant comment President Frank had made at a football game about curtsying had sparked a two-year debate about the appropriate solemnities when royalty visited, not that it would ever happen—but these were the things club members liked debating because they had the time, and because to not know the answer meant that they were simpletons. And when the club had hosted a mock reception for some unidentified British royal—he had seen this from afar with his own eyes, so it had happened—it was clearly an excuse for the Alphas to eat all the snacks afterward and dab clotted cream from their lips. Marco didn't know if President Frank had actually said anything of the sort, but it could have happened, and that was as close to the truth he would get.

His iced lychee juice quenched his thirst and his desire to work more that afternoon, but the calming effect faded when he emptied his glass. Pleasure, like all else, was ephemeral; he wiped away the condensation on his hand. He paid the bill and left to find a new place to work through the afternoon heat. Jessica had not texted him, and he realized his concerns about her attachment were overblown—or it was the other way around, that Jessica was offended that he hadn't reached out to her. She would find a way to cope, as she always did. Maybe when the weather cooled and the breeze came in, she would go out with her other friends to walk the streets of San Sebastian under the glittery lamplight and gossip about pop stars. That sounded nice, actually. He could do that. There was no reason he couldn't, other than his immature desire to make a point about solitude solely for the sake of making a point. Now that he had identified that trace of club orthodoxy, he could purge it, and return to San Sebastian.

The train was to leave in ten minutes—if he walked quickly, he could make it in time. Marco turned around and went to the train station.