Zig Zag Read Free Page A

down, oblivious to everything but the
wavelength that she and her students were on, "is that different
dimensions can affect each other, in one way or another. Let me give
you another example."
    When
she was planning class, she'd initially intended to draw this example
on the board. But now she saw the newspaper folded on the lectern. On
days when she had class, she always bought the paper at the kiosk on
the way into campus and then read it in the cafeteria afterward. Now
it occurred to her that her students might understand this next
example better (it was far more complicated) if she used an object
instead.
    She
opened the paper to a page at random and spread it out. "Imagine
that this piece of newspaper is a spatial plane..."
    She
glanced down to extract the page without messing up the rest of the
paper. And saw it.
    Horror
is quick. We can be horrified before we're even aware of it. Before
we realize why, our hands tremble, the blood drains from our face,
something falls to the pit of our stomach. Elisa had glanced
momentarily at one of the headlines on the upper-right-hand side of
the page, and, even before understanding what it meant, she felt a
rush of adrenaline and froze.
    She
took in the basic information in a matter of seconds. But those
seconds were eternal. While they lasted, she was barely aware of her
students' existence, of the fact that they'd all fallen silent and
were waiting for her to continue. That they'd begun to realize that
something was not right, to nudge one another, clear their throats,
turn around to glance questioningly at each other.
    A
new Elisa looked up and confronted the silent expectancy she'd given
rise to.
    "Uh,
so ... Imagine that I fold the plane here," she continued
unfalteringly, in the monotonous voice of an automaton.
    Without
knowing how, she carried on. She wrote equations on the board, solved
them effortlessly, asked questions, and gave additional examples. It
was a heroic, superhuman feat that no one seemed to pick up on. Or
did they? She wondered if Yolanda, ever attentive in the front row,
had noted the panic coursing through her.
    "Let's
leave it here for today," she said, when there were five minutes
of class left. "I warn you that from here on out, everything is
going to get much more complicated," she added, trembling at the
irony of her words.

    HER office
was at the end of the hall. Luckily, her colleagues were all busy and
she didn't bump into anyone on her way back. She walked in, closed
the door, locked it, sat down at her desk, opened the newspaper, and
almost tore the page, inspecting it as carefully as someone poring
over a list of dead, praying not to find a loved one's name but
knowing, inevitably, that it will jump out as if in another color.
    The
news offered almost no details, just the probable date of the
incident: it hadn't been discovered until the following day, but it
seemed likely it had taken place Monday, sometime during the night of
March 9, 2015.
    The
day before yesterday.
    She
couldn't breathe.
    Just
then, a shadow filled the frosted glass of her office door.
    Though
she knew it had to be something run of the mill (a cleaner, a
colleague), Elisa stood up, unable to utter a word. You're
next.
    The
shadow stood motionless before her door. She heard the sound of the
lock.
    Elisa
was not a coward; she was tremendously brave, in fact. But at that
moment a child's laughter could have sent shivers down her spine. She
felt something cold on her back and realized that she'd unconsciously
backed so far up that she was pressed against the wall. Long, damp
hair half-covered her sweaty face.
    Finally,
the door opened.
    Sometimes
terror is almost like death, a dry run that momentarily strips away
your voice, your sight, your vital functions, and for as long as it
lasts, you can't breathe, can't think, your heart stops beating. At
that horrific moment, that was what happened to Elisa. When the man
saw her, he started. It was Pedro, one of the custodians. He held