Every morning, when only a few early birds were on campus, the morning fog rolled down from the hills and enveloped Heller, a chill that condensed on lampposts, dampened leaves of grass, and made those wearing light clothing shiver. On particularly frigid days, when the winds were just right, the temperature dropped below freezing, and those who took morning showers had their hair decorated with shards of ice. Sometimes a student walking too quickly without offering the weather the proper respect would slip and fall, and then a good Samaritan passing by would help them hobble to the nurse's office, where the employee on duty would warn them sternly about playing when slippery. Those being tended to were apologetic, regardless if they considered themselves at fault for merely walking as an ordinary person would.

This layer of cloud that rendered the school ethereal tended to burn away in the sun by the first bell if an especially warm day, and if not, it would linger and fester and make the PE students outside cry. Today was a hot day, one when autumn got bored and chose to masquerade as summer. The first students to emerge from the locker room signaled to those still leaving: "It's hot!" They loitered in the shade until they mustered the energy to move downhill toward the track. Some took long sips from the water fountain as a precaution. Ms. Stevens came down exactly five minutes after the bell rang in a visor and black-and-white checkered outfit, showing no signs of discomfort. She enjoyed the warm weather; besides, she didn't have to run. Every lap was a battle against the heat, a lush carpet that smothered all but Frank, who seemed content to jog at a reasonable, if not particularly fast, pace and power-walk slightly slower, all with the intent of running out the clock. The sweat lubricated their shoulders, rigid arms swinging like scythes. Everyone, regardless if they were cross-country all-stars or flabby tragedies, curved on their last lap up the concrete steps and toward the water fountain, which gurgled and spat out an arced stream of frigid water with the press of the button.

Tom and Ted moved immediately to chat with their friends in the shade; they ran quickly and thus had time to relax. Steam rose from Ted's arms, a novel occurrence that Tom immediately commented on. Before they could fully catch their breath, Ms. Stevens's voice rang out:

"Tom! Ted!" They turned in unison.

"You two were late! Run another lap!" They groaned and hopped over the railing, back to the track, and they started running again. The track was scenic: as they ran, students passed by some scattered track-and-field equipment, an athletic shed dedicated to an old coach no students at the school still remembered, and one locked gate in the chain-link that many fantasized about escaping through. There was still no respite from the heat. Ted finished quite quickly, and Ms. Stevens was impressed.

"You should consider doing cross-country. Good stamina."

"I want to join the Navy someday, and for that I try to remain in shape. There is no greater privilege than serving one's country," Ted said with a smile, looking back at Tom out of breath behind him and people like Jason, who appeared on the verge of fainting even after a few minutes' rest.

"Great energy and good work. I respect that. This counts as extra credit for both of you. Now go change," Ms. Stevens concluded with a smile, pointing at the other students who were leaving the field.

Alan still had a few beads of sweat dotting his brow and a mild odor when he left his fifth-period class for lunch, a fact which his peers politely ignored. He walked with no particular destination in mind, but endeavored to project a single-minded determination, tracing the hallways for someone to attach himself to. Behrooz, who held a packet of papers while staring at one of the many posters proclaiming Heller values, proved appropriate.

"What are you looking at?" Alan asked, standing next to him and adopting his same puzzled expression.

"I'm trying to fill out my application to join the leadership program. It's asking me to think of ways I embody true Tiger values," Behrooz responded calmly, as if he was trying to teach Alan.

"What are those?" Alan had never paid much attention to what teachers tried to tell him and others about school spirit. It seemed extraneous. He attended a football game once, where he understood little; Frank was there and also understood little, but Frank explained to him something about being a good citizen that Alan did not understand—it made no sense why he walked back to school, in the dark, to drink hot chocolate and marinate in undefinable energy. If this school spirit did not improve his test scores, he wasn't interested.

"Well, it's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight," Behrooz said with a smile, and when Alan did not understand, he explained it was an old song. "You should apply too. It's fun, I promise." Alan obediently went to get an application for himself and pulled a pen from his backpack. Name, date, grade, student ID number—so far so good: this was easy! Describe your favorite experience at Heller so far—Alan's pen stopped. He looked at Behrooz for inspiration, who seemingly had come out of his writer's block and was continuing to write, holding his packet against the wall. Alan had greatly enjoyed acing his first math test. His teacher had written "Great work!" in crisp handwriting along the top, next to a "100%" underlined in red. Alan had looked through his test multiple times, impressed that he had done everything right. It appeared he was close at one point to losing a point because he used an unusual method, but thank God the teacher excused that! His parents and sister seemed so happy when he had showed them later that day; he talked with his mouth full to re-emphasize that this was a hard test where he struggled a lot.

"No, I'm not sure if that's what they're looking for," Behrooz commented when Alan pitched that story to him. "That's not unique enough, it doesn't speak to who you are as an individual. Any ordinary person can do well on a test if they study."

"But this was an especially hard test. I studied many hours for it, sure, but that's considered fighting through adversity. I think my classmates are ordinary, and they did not do as well." Behrooz was loath to admit it, but maybe Alan wasn't quite as wrong as Behrooz wanted him to be. Surely it was some testament to their unique virtue that they were striving to challenge themselves. Ms. Foster had promised everyone during the weekly video announcements that it was easy to become a leader. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step; it did not matter what prior experience they had, passion would reign supreme. Still, Behrooz was not swayed by Alan's logic:

"Is there any experience outside the classroom you enjoyed?"

"Well, I'm not sure if this is something I could write about, but..." The bell rang and shattered Alan's train of thought, and Behrooz turned in his application with a grin and wished Alan good luck. He put his own in one of his binders to work on as homework.

Frank was enjoying drama class. He had a natural flair for improv, generally playing the straight man but also perfectly capable of stealing the spotlight when his group members proved lacking. One particular scene proved his magnum opus so far: his character was hosting his own birthday party, but none of the guests he had invited came. It was a silent scene, and through pantomime Frank mimicked setting up tables, preparing a birthday cake, and anxious waiting, culminating in a tragic rendition of "Happy Birthday (To Me)" that received uproarious laughter. Beyond that, many amusing anecdotes populated the first few months of class: near the beginning of the year, Louis's acrophobia was exploited for the class's amusement, his resulting embarrassment driving him to quit the class before word spread of his failure; a week later, a junior had a seizure and collapsed due to a flickering spotlight, which was the talk of the school for a day before students collectively decided it was poor conduct to make light of another student's illness. He was having a blast, and he was about to have even more of one: Mr. Cathcart had put out the call for ushers to apply to assist with the musical starting the following week, and Frank was interested.

"Why didn't you audition at the beginning of the year?" Mr. Cathcart asked, still sitting in his favorite swivel chair.

"The time commitment was the main factor, and I'm not much of a singer."

"I'm sure you could figure it out. But anyway, I'm glad to have you on the team." Mr. Cathcart pulled out a T-shirt matching the theatrical poster, depicting a stylized Don Quixote with a rotund Sancho Panza, and gave it to Frank along with a reminder for him to pitch seeing Man of La Mancha to his friends.

"Have you read Don Quixote?" Frank asked Mr. Cathcart, who responded with a sheepish grin.

"Once in college, I think. But that was a long time ago. You're smart, you probably read it in kindergarten."

"Over the summer, which at this point may as well be kindergarten," Frank smiled, and they laughed in unison. "I'm also mildly traumatized from the mandatory plays in middle school."

"Oh yeah, that's right, you went to Pemberley. You're one of those kids. I was a student teacher there before I came to Heller. Interesting place."

"Indeed it is. I'll be glad to be on the right side of the stage this time," Frank concluded, and he went to one of the many restrooms in the theater to try on his new shirt. The theater's restrooms were perpetually spotless, and they even had air freshener; every drama student knew to hold their bodily needs until they could swing by the theater and relieve themselves in peace. It fit well, and wasn't out of character for Frank, who generally only wore T-shirts when they were advertising something. He dressed similarly to John otherwise, who also could pass for an university professor if not only due to his wardrobe, due to his temperament too. John had a leg up on Frank in that front because he wore reading glasses, which he kept in a fancy case that seemed to always appear out of thin air.

"What's the musical about?" John asked Frank after noticing his sudden wardrobe change.

"I'm not that familiar with the plot of the musical, but it's based on an old Spanish novel called Don Quixote, which is considered by some to be the first modern novel. Don Quixote, an old nobleman living in a ruined estate, wakes up one day suddenly believing himself to be a knight; together with his squire, Sancho Panza, they roam the countryside adventuring. I'm really not doing the story justice, but if you want to know more, you'll have to come to the show next week."

"How much do the tickets cost?"

"Uh, not much?" Frank wasn't sure if he was already failing at his duty as usher.

"I'm intrigued. I'll be there." John reached out to shake Frank's hand; Frank smiled curiously, and responded with similar formality. The timing of this discussion proved fortuitous, as during English class that day, Regina was especially in the mood for conversation.

"What do you do in your free time, John, like let's say this weekend as an example? What do you have planned?" Regina looked John straight in the eye, hoping this would make him respond more quickly. Juliet blushed.

"This weekend, not much. The usual, you know. Maybe some Minecraft. I'm going to see the musical next week, though."

"Oh, really? I knew you were artistically inclined." Regina considered herself extremely artistic, almost excessively so. Her parents enrolled her in piano and ballet from a young age, two extracurriculars she pursued with admirable devotion up until the present day. They controlled her free time to a remarkable degree, and she was fortunate that she never grew tired of performing. Regina could not imagine a life without performance, without an exceptionalism that was so uniquely her; her friends and family were constantly supportive of her efforts, and while they had always offered her the option of doing something else, she never chose to take it. Besides the pride she felt when executing a perfect arabesque or playing a sonata, another primary motivation was the focus on technique and constant improvement. Her ballet teacher frequently explained how there was always something new to discover in even the simplest of steps; any good performance of any sort was the confluence of hundreds of variables, all tweaked to perfection, and Regina resolved to master all of them. Regina did not consider herself entitled, but when success was not hers, there would be hell to pay.

"No, no, I'm really not. I'm a spectator. My drawings are terrible," John meekly responded, turning to his paper to do a quick sketch of Regina with an honest effort; when she figured out what John was doing, she posed appropriately. John did not lie: he was a poor artist. Regina came out with a bulbous nose, asymmetrical cheekbones, hair that appeared to be in the process of ripping itself from her scalp, and a puzzled look that was either a freeze-frame from an electrocution or the result of too much Botox. Regina tried to force herself to say something pleasant about the drawing, but could only comment that John would improve someday. When Regina stood up to grab a tissue and blow her nose, Ted asked John if he could keep the drawing, and John was happy to get it off his hands. Ted would later set it as the background picture on his phone.

The following Thursday was one of the few short days scattered throughout the school year, and just in time for lunch hundreds of students were given premature freedom that they did not know how to use appropriately. The foolish ones had their parents come pick them up, the collective impact of these decisions being yet another long, snaking line of cars that stretched from every parking lot into the street. The smarter ones walked downtown, passing alongside pristine gardens of jeweled flowers and landscapers to gorge themselves on the fruits of society. Beth, Regina, and Juliet had decided to dine alfresco, and Beth and Juliet marveled equally at just how nice that day was. The school schedule was not based on the weather forecast, but if it were, the administration could not have picked a better day to let students leave school early. Regina was not walking with them because she had to make up a math test at school, but promised to hurry over to join them as soon as she could. They had decided on sushi that day, but until Regina arrived, Beth and Juliet could not be impolite and dine without her; they sat in the shade and bantered, distracting themselves from the impending meal that their stomachs growled in chorus for.

Regina wore sunglasses and had a spring in her step as she strode toward Beth and Juliet. As much as she considered them more appropriate for the spring and summer, with such unseasonably warm weather, the prospect of being seen in public, and John once remarking on them in a positive way, her sunglasses seemed suitable. Beth and Juliet complimented her on her outfit, revoking any doubts she had. The Japanese supermarket was air-conditioned, and the girls made an immediate left to the shelves of boxed sushi, displayed next to a few Japanese drinks that Regina used her developing linguistic skills to haltingly read. They then immediately crossed the street and walked another block to reach the park, where many other students were enjoying their own meals.

Regina stopped when she saw a bench looking over the grassy field, where lanky men in T-shirts played volleyball, and brushed off the dried leaves before sitting down. The others followed suit. They had sat somewhere near here before many times, they were sure, when they were a year or two younger and a bit shorter. They had talked then of carefree things, pop idols and movies, and they still talked of the same. But first, they ate. Beth precisely scraped a piece of salmon nigiri through the wasabi, leaving a green dusting on the rice: the perfect morsel. Just a trace of fat rippling between the fish's muscle, which had undoubtedly lived a healthy life in a Hokkaido stream or somewhere up in Alaska until it was reeled in, dissected, and shipped on ice across the ocean to eventually wind up delicately clutched in her palm (Beth and Juliet had reached for their chopsticks before Regina enthusiastically informed them the proper Japanese way was to use one's hand). Thin slices of pickled ginger served as a palate cleanser, and Juliet winced when Beth ate hers without accompaniment.

"I have a great idea: why don't we all see the musical tonight?" Regina suggested suddenly, endeavoring to disguise any semblance of forethought. She had discreetly tricked John into confirming that tonight was the night when he, alone, would go watch the show; its quality and name (which Regina forgot) were irrelevant. When asked, John did not know if the show was best enjoyed alone or with friends, or even one special friend; he encouraged Regina to ask Frank, who inferred from her having been directed by John that her asking was no coincidence.

"I don't know. It's all according to your personal preference, and that's something only you know. Some attend shows for what happens on stage. Some attend for the social experience. Maybe, just maybe, you may find yourself sitting with like-minded people. If you want specific seats, I suggest you arrive early," Frank said with a grin, and Regina effusively thanked him, despite not having been promised anything specific.

Beth and Juliet immediately saw what Regina was suggesting.

"By any chance is there a special someone there?" Beth insinuated with a smile, and they all laughed.

"I think it's romantic—theaters are always romantic. We don't have cheer practice; we can come." Beth grimaced slightly at being spoken for, but voiced her assent. It was official: they were all to arrive at the theater as early as they could, buy four seats, instruct the volunteer manning the box office to give John the ticket (students were required to show ID when attending all events, ensuring this transfer would happen successfully), avoid being seen by John before the show, arrive at their seats, and then smile as if this was all a coincidence. Their plan was foolproof, Regina declared, straight out of a movie! Juliet giggled with delight.

After they finished their lunch and the volleyball players left, they returned downtown in search of sweet refreshment, which they found remarkably quickly. Only a few minutes standing in line at the raunchily named, although still kid-appropriate, "Snacks and the Ci-Tea" (the pun on "Sex and the City" never failed to amuse Beth, not that she'd ever seen it) and they left with cold drinks in tow. Heat and cold exist in a primal balance befitting their status as natural forces: when it was cold, students crowded Starbucks and coffeehouses even more boutique; when it was hot, students crowded bubble tea shops and ice cream parlors. Beyond merely ensuring the youth remained in caffeinated bliss, these businesses also provided easy employment for older students. It was considered an easy job to dispense drinks—not as profitable as private tutoring, but students could work without thinking secret thoughts of extorting their employers.

Juliet took a moment to stir her bubble tea, waiting for the black pearls to settle again before slowly taking a sip. Regina chose instead to take a boisterous slurp immediately upon exiting the store to express her resounding approval of her refreshment. While they all had homework, none of them felt like they were in any particular rush. They wanted to look their best for the theater, and Beth reminded them yet again that there was no dress code and that they all looked perfectly fine as is. Juliet relayed a text from her mother inviting the other two to study together, relax more, and enjoy life at her house; the other two received the all-clear from their parents, and together they waited in the parking lot of a grocery store for her mother's black BMW.

Behrooz wished he could have left early, but instead he was nervously waiting outside the leadership director's office for his interview. It was a casual affair, really—Ms. Foster and two seniors simply wanted to have a friendly chat about his life at school, more angled toward general mentorship and wellness than anything regarding leadership, and to identify any red flags. Some applicants clearly would not work well with others; they boasted of their own prowess while implying that school was a competition that must be won by them at any cost. Alan fell into that category, and while he left his interview the previous day confident that he aced it, Ms. Foster took the rare step of putting his application through the paper shredder so the two students with her could have no doubts about her opinion. Other applicants defied attempts at categorization, writing at unusual length about strange hobbies or their peculiar fascination with the school's architecture. This weirdness was not a red flag in Ms. Foster's mind, although she prepared for interviews with these applicants with a trace of caution; these sorts of people tended to be subversive, and the last thing the school needed was saboteurs reigning supreme. Behrooz was fortunate to come into his interview without facing any preconception, and he was greeted warmly with a glass of ice water. A bowl of fresh heirloom tomatoes, already washed, lay in the middle of the table; Ms. Foster spoke proudly about her garden, and would often bring in gourmet treats for her students. They admired her generosity, and she was absolved of some sin knowing that they were being tricked into eating healthily. Behrooz thought this a strange gesture, but he popped one red globe into his mouth, chewed, and smiled. Sweet, but tangy, with a vague herbal note that indicated this was truly the finest of vegetables (once, a smart-ass had told Ms. Foster that well actually, tomatoes were fruits, and received a stern warning not to be subversive ever again).

"So, Bay-Ruse—am I pronouncing that correctly? I want to make sure I'm saying it authentically," Ms. Foster began. Behrooz nodded and assured Ms. Foster she was entirely correct. The students flanking her sides assiduously began taking notes. "What made you apply for this position?"

"Well, where do I begin? At the first assembly, I was inspired by how proud all of the students on stage were to be Tigers, how spirited they were. And I knew then, at that exact moment, I wanted to bring the same joy to others," Behrooz responded.

"Good answer, good answer. I will admit I'm not in charge of how exactly our freshmen are taken care of to begin the year, but I'm glad they are doing satisfactorily, and that our students are doing a good job," she responded, placing a particular emphasis on the "they" while turning her head toward the administrative offices. "Do you have any prior leadership experience?"

"No, but I'm willing to learn."

"Good answer, great initiative there. That's the sort of attitude we need around here. Leaders, not followers. Do you consider yourself a leader, Behrooz?"

"I really don't know how to answer that."

"You will become one."

"I guess that answers that."

"What's a proposal you have for helping the Heller community?" This was an important question—the seniors held their pens in a ready position, as if about to stab their papers. Behrooz looked around the room for inspiration, which seemed to have the highest density of motivational posters on campus.

"Peer-to-peer mentorship. We could have a big buddy system, where upperclassmen like you two," he said gesturing to the seniors, who beamed with delight at their being recognized, "mentor students who simply need a bit of help adjusting to their new surroundings. Academically, socially, emotionally, whatever—you'd know better than I would."

"Great idea! Michael, work on that." Michael made a note on his paper. They engaged in their back and forth for a while longer, Ms. Foster constantly impressed at Behrooz's diplomatic skills. Even when she urged him politely that if any of his classmates needed special attention to absorb true Heller values, he could simply say their names and already be providing the student leadership he desired, Behrooz refused. Not out of any moral principle, he just couldn't think of any. Ms. Foster frowned, but regained her composure. She congratulated him heartily on surviving his first few months of high school, and urged him to go out and enjoy the sunshine.

John arrived at the theater roughly fifteen minutes before the show began, early enough to not be late, but late enough that many already were loitering in the lobby and eating snacks. It was dinner time—was he hungry? He didn't know. He showed his ID and was about to hand over some money when the lady there gave him a ticket with a smile. Before he could ask why, she called out "Next!," so he shrugged and entered the lobby. He saw Frank talking with a parent who was selling flowers, and made a note to ask him before the show.

Frank had already seen the show once, and was rather neutral about seeing it again that night, to be followed by three more performances. The previous night was technically opening night: it was a chance for the show to perform for some teachers who didn't want to risk seeing their students' parents on other nights, relatives of the cast who saw this as their only chance to sit in the front row, and the ushers. There were a few others besides Frank, who kept to themselves and talked in cryptic anime references avoiding all responsibility; they were only there for extra credit. Frank could handle people. He knew people. People liked him. This would be easy.

"You must know Adrian!" One of the parents told him somewhat rhetorically while Frank was making sure the doors worked properly. Frank said that he did not not know Adrian, hoping his vagueness would end the conversation quickly. Mr. Liebkind explained that Adrian was still a freshman, but he was fast-tracked for theatrical talent (despite only being in the ensemble this time—beginner's luck), and that surely if Frank were to stick around, he would meet him. Liebkind was a funny name, Frank thought; it implied literally that Adrian was a bastard child, or that the line of bastard children extended patrilineally for some time. And while Frank did not know it, Adrian did live up to that title in the other sense of the word. It also reminded Frank of something, which he asked Mr. Cathcart about when he emerged from some dark recess of the theater in a suit.

"Mr. Cathcart, has Heller ever done The Producers? I loved the movie, and meeting Adrian's father put the thought in my head for a reason you probably understand." Mr. Cathcart checked to make sure Mr. Liebkind was out of earshot, and then laughed. "We're doing Young Frankenstein next year, and probably a tragedy after that, but that's the first good suggestion I've heard for what to do next. I'll know for sure by next year, but great idea."

That was awfully abrupt of a decision, Frank thought, but he saw no reason to question it. John came up to him with his ticket, curiously marked with a smiley face in addition to the seat number, and explained what happened to him outside.

Frank could barely conceal his grin, and he looked up to see the three girls standing on the far end of the theater talking among themselves and dressed just formally enough to stand out (despite Beth's pleas, the three of them spent a solid half-hour searching through Juliet's wardrobe for last-minute outfits that screamed Broadway and class). If he did not know them, he'd have assumed they were distant cousins of somebody in the cast. How John hadn't already seen them was beyond him.

"Today's your lucky day," he commented wryly, and handed the ticket back to John without caring to give any more details. Mr. Cathcart gave the signal to start seating, and the doors to the house opened in sequence. Frank was fortunate he knew exactly how the theater's seating plan worked, otherwise he would be lost in the deluge of arrivals. When waiting for someone new to help, he spun his pocket-sized flashlight around in circles. In the short span of five minutes, Frank transformed himself into a hardened professional, walking backward while leading parents, teachers, and students alike to their seats just as he had been led before at other theaters. Familiar faces were addressed by name, the rest sir and ma'am, a somewhat unnecessary touch of formality that was nonetheless appreciated. John was greeted by name, and the three girls that entered a minute or two after him also received personal treatment, including a compliment on the effort they had put into their outfits. Regina realized at this point that they had over-dressed slightly, at least compared to their age group, but it was obviously too late by then to change.

John looked up from his program to see Beth, then Juliet, shimmy past him apologizing for the inconvenience; he had already moved his legs inward out of reflex. Regina sat to his right, then turned toward him and feigned surprise:

"John! You made it!" He looked at his ticket again, searching for a mistake; he could not find one, but apologized anyway to the three of them, certain he was sitting in the wrong seat. They presented theirs in return, assuring him that for tonight, their three now included a fourth. John did not appear terribly enthused, but seemed happy enough. John was too closed-minded to view this as a scheme or clever application of artifice. His first instinct was to assume someone in the box office made an error, and he expected someone fitting the others' demographic profile more closely to come replace him. This must be what it felt like to be popular. And given no other choice, he turned to chat. Regina pondered and savored John's casual questions, trying her best to convey that such refined banter came naturally to her. John did not notice this Herculean effort, but he too tried his best to carry the conversation and touch upon the standards of theater conversation. Beth and Juliet purposely minimized their roles, only jumping in when they saw it appropriate; they laughed modestly at John's Chinese pronunciation because he still struggled to identify tones. Regina tried to teach him a tongue-twister to capitalize on this weakness, which he failed at miserably. Frank, who happened to be walking by, overheard and said it perfectly on his first try, as if it effortlessly rolled off his tongue. Juliet was especially impressed, Beth didn't want to make John feel too bad by applauding Frank's skill, Regina was far more interested in John, and John did not realize at all Frank did more than mimic flawlessly. "Frank's the kid who's taking calculus," Juliet added, but Regina did not seem to care. Probably still a creep, she thought, although at least he didn't pat them on the head for their good effort.

The overture started and the lights dimmed, and Regina went silent out of force of habit; the others followed her lead. John had never seen anything in a theater like this before, and he was too scared to make any comments, even about Juliet and Regina's legs slowly infiltrating his personal space. He stared transfixed at the stage, imagining his mind slowly leaving his body and floating effortlessly over the seats in front of him; inside that musty Spanish prison with rusty chains and the odor of blood; inside Cervantes's mind as he stared at shifty felons in the darkness; inside Don Quixote's mind as he woke up in a village of La Mancha, the name of which he had no desire to call to mind; inside a hardy, gaunt, sporting figure who rose early at the cock's crow; and on and on through such a chain of logic that he absorbed everything with the greatest possible appreciation. John would have made a natural theater critic then, as he remembered every tremulous note the singers hit and every step on stage. The melodies wormed their way into his body and coursed through his veins. He roused himself with the lights heralding intermission, and Regina insisted he come with to purchase snacks. Juliet mouthed a "thank you" to Frank as she left, along with a wave, and he returned the latter gesture. The same general pattern repeated itself at the end of intermission: John reassured the three of them that he could switch seats if needed, Regina responded that everything was perfect as is, and the show resumed.

John's mind was addled and his body was stoic. Juliet worried for a moment, when her arm brushed against his, that he seemed icy. He blinked at regular intervals, so he was probably fine. It helped that John was drowsy, as he often was; he watched the musical in a state of half-dream, half-lucidity, not quite sure if he was watching the show with his companions in a Californian suburb or the Spanish countryside. Regina found that she was enjoying herself, and decided that even if John were absent, this was a perfectly fine way to spend an evening. As the curtain closed, John could not tell if he had spent hours or days sitting still, and along with the others he gave a standing ovation.

Discussion Questions:

How is Don Quixote incorporated into this chapter, and what do the references accomplish?

What influences from Asian cultures are apparent at Heller and in the surrounding community, and how do these help develop the setting?

What appears sinister about Behrooz's leadership interview, and how has this vibe been reinforced elsewhere?