“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Phillip appears behind her, standing too close and swaying slightly. “That asymptotic dissatisfaction? The phallic superstructure? What a metaphor! What an artist!”

Nora shakes her head.

Phillip laughs. “You thought you were going to die going in there, didn’t you?”

“I was so hot, then cold...”

“It’s a good trick, isn’t it? It’s all physics. Really simple when you think about it. The push and pull of hot and cool air. High school stuff!” Phillip sits beside her on the wet grass. “Oh, Nora,” he says, “don’t worry.” He puts his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t you know you’re pretty? Too pretty to be so sad!” His hand creeps toward her breast. He burps, leaning toward her confidentially. “Listen, Nora. I’m going to give you some very valuable guidance. Very valuable. Listen closely.” His hand fumbles at her bra and his wet mouth brushes her ear as he tries to whisper. “You don’t need to try so hard.”

She presses her lips together. That something from a few minutes earlier, when the crest of her future was rising inside her like a gale — where did it go? She is a tiny boat, now, adrift on a strange sea.

“Besides,” Phillip burps, “so what if you don’t get it? Structural art is hard.  Concept-y. And all the air-flow physics stuff. You don’t have to understand everything. Try to enjoy your time as an intern.”

“Intern?” She shrinks from him. “I’m not an intern! You hired me six months ago!”

Phillip laughs. She smells something between vomit and alcohol.

“Did we really?” he says. Phillip snorts, standing up and shambling away.

Did we really? A stylish young woman falls back from the silo, giggling, into the arms of the semi-famous structural artist. A photographer from Oxford American snaps a picture and Nora flinches from its click, the shutter opening, closing.