**
the quiet turn raucous, the prudish turn reckless. pulling hair, breaking chairs, trampling on diaries. strange creatures litter the blackboard, paperballs litter the room. we-are-free, the collective chant goes. we-are-free-free-free.
**
five, six, seven. the first one to collapse is not fragile. a dungeon of paper swallows him as he tries to exhibit a flawed cartwheel for the seventy-seventh time. one by one, all fall. tiny bodies splayed across a ruined room, sweat still drying on their skin.
**
eight. the bell rings, loudly and obstinately, stirring them from their slumber. one by one, all rise. they pick up their bags and silently walk out in a perfect line. they are, of course, not going to pretend that their lives have been radically altered.