"Here is a list of one hundred questions", the headmaster mumbled, handing me a mimeographed bundle of sheets. "When you have the answers to these questions, you graduate." With that, the headmaster left the room, as I sat there in the leather chair, wondering if I was supposed to get up or wait. Certain students spent less than a week attempting to answer all questions, and would then stand before the headmaster and run through the list, only to be refused (never told which answers were wrong) and sent back to the dormitory, suckled on failure after failure. Certain students never attempted to answer the questions, and grew into the half-space between student and teacher, hanging around the dormitory as shabby stick-thin tutors. I had my answers, but never shared them with the headmaster, terrified of some minor imperfection, and even now, years after being thrown out of the academy, I am still polishing my answers, tightening the phrasing and order.

the exit is hidden within the exit