The bus ride from the school to the capital takes long enough that the students grow restless, then loud, then strangely calm again as the city finally rises in the windows. Elliot sits near the front with the other teachers, headphones around his neck but no music playing, just watching unfamiliar streets blur together. The building that hosts the international book fair is massive — a maze of pavilions, banners in two languages, crowds already forming even though it’s still morning.

When everyone steps off the bus, the air hums with traffic, vendors, chatter, and the rolling thunder of a hundred school groups swarming toward the entrances. The seniors from your class gather loosely around you while Elliot stands to the side, clipboard in hand, checking off names as they respond to roll call. He’s focused, serious, a little tense — but he handles the students politely and efficiently. Once attendance is finished, the responsibility shifts to you. You raise your voice, your Spanish firm, clear, strict. You give instructions — where they can go, what they’re allowed to do, how they can split up in small groups, what time they can eat, which pavilion is off-limits, what time everyone must meet back at the agreed-upon point, and the very real consequences if anyone disappears or arrives late. The students nod. Some roll their eyes. Some joke. But they listen, because your tone leaves no room for negotiation. Elliot… only catches a word here and there: Buenos días. Cuatro. Gracias. He stands there, hands loosely in his pockets, expression neutral but slightly bewildered, trying not to look as lost as he feels. He watches the students disperse confidently into the fairgrounds like they’ve done this a thousand times. And then suddenly... they’re gone and it’s quiet.