There’s a pair of hawk eyes staring at me—the RA, making sure I eat. I poke experimentally at the macaroni and cheese, but it just wriggles out of control like a mass of newly-hatched larvae, and it’s no wonder my fork flings spatters of potassium yellow at the cracked wall. It now has a runny nose—brick and mortar oozing chemical cheese. I can sniffle-snuff in sympathy, because I know there doesn’t really exist. Only here does, even if she’s not here, and I guess that’s going to have to be okay. Maybe.
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