One story of the Menzies Building

In the first class of the semester, your forehead delivers its own unique blend of salted water to your brow, and you get to know each other in the most primal way, deciphering one another from the blended musk. We wield the syllabi like harisens.

“I’ve just turned on the fan, but I don’t know if it will do much good,” offers the professor, “and the windows don’t open any further.” They’re open enough to fit your arm up to the shoulder.

“The windows used to open more and you used to be able to go up on the roof too,” says one of the returning students who knows the whole story, “But one person ruined it for all of us.”