Lucian, who had just left the principal's office, was observing the monitor again. On his uniform, he had some pins with political meanings, reaffirming the category he thought he belonged to.

  However, his moment of observing him didn't last long; the boy was wearing a strange smile and had stretched out his hand. Lucian took it and shook it in silence, receiving a short laugh from him.

  "Good morning, Lucian. Your visit to the school will be conducted by me, my name is Miguel," he said slowly, followed by a strange grimace, pointing to the closed door, "but you can call me Kael. As he told you, I will be your tour guide of the city's oldest and most successful school in university entrance exams."

  With the door closed in his face, Lucian noticed the corridor was empty and the environment had a comfortably echoing quality. He had heard his guide speaking, but his mind was still on the rebel—how could such a serious institution allow those accessories?

  Of course, it was a new continent; he shouldn't presume what was normal, as he certainly wasn't an example. A quietness came over Lucian as he realized he was lost in his thoughts again, and pretending to look at something in the distance, he turned back to him and asked about the last thing he heard.

  "Why Kael?" He tried to use the few Portuguese words he knew, but he felt a strangeness in the way he used them; his intonation might have failed, and he thought about repeating himself when he was answered after another caricatured expression from his guide.

  "Well, everyone who knows me calls me Kael, it's a long-standing nickname. Do you know the archangel Michael? Well, in Hebrew, he is Mikha'el," he replies, writing on one of the papers he was holding, and then shows it. "And it means 'Who is like God?'. I prefer the last part of that question."

  Lucian listened to him attentively,with brief sparks in his eyes, which faded into curiosity. He maintained a posture of escape, as if at any moment he would run away, but his breathing seemed to demonstrate an eagerness to understand the reason for his question.

  Miguel paused, staring at Lucian's indecipherable face, which was changing again. And perceiving that he was only trying to understand, he continued:

  "Kael. It sounds more like a statement than a doubt."

  Lucian was a little confused due to not knowing some words, but if he had understood correctly, was he blaspheming against his religion in a way that was perceptive, linguistic, and captivating?

  No, captivating couldn't be right, for it would still be blasphemy. His frown deepened with each second he thought about the subject; averting his gaze, he realized they had walked a little way past the principal's office.

  Still amid his thoughts, he hunted for meaning in the statement and the doubt. If there were no 'who' to compare, everyone would be like Him, and not a brief lapse of Him. And he tried to understand a little more of what he was insinuating with that nickname by which, apparently, he was known.

  "If you remove the 'Mi', which is 'Who', what do you mean?" He was still questioning his pronunciation and intonation, but the important thing was for him to understand his question. Which he seemed to understand very well, because he smiled again with a calm and intriguing expression.

  "The phrase 'Who is like God?' brings the idea that no one is like Him, but if you take the 'who' out of the game," he says, making quotation marks with his fingers, with a corner smile, "the expression 'like God' remains, thus being His similar, equal to Him. Do you see where I'm going with this, Lucian?"

  He had concluded with a tone that Lucian had only heard in French romance films. Was he flirting with him? No, he couldn't be led to think that; it was just a joke, no, a blasphemy against what he believed. He nodded slightly with his head, concluding:

  "So, you are God?" He knew very little of the language to ask what he really wanted, but the basics were enough to understand how deranged and heretical his guide was. A punk, he had to be. He couldn't have peace even in an environment like that.

  "Only if you want me to be, Lucian. But I prefer to be a mere mortal," he used that same tone, but it seemed he intended to continue.

  "Well, let's start with the tour. As I hope you were previously welcomed, this is the principal's office."

  He pointed in a playful way, in an attempt to engage Lucian in a more tranquil internal moment, as if he had seen the earthquake he had caused.

  A chill ran up from the base of his body, making him shiver with the supposition of having been read in full—worse, as if he were transparent and his soul were written in hieroglyphs, and the one in front of him could translate and even transcribe it.

  Silently, Lucian, in a hesitant step, followed him, mentally nicknaming him Tectonic Plate; the space was wide, mild, there was a bit of everything one could imagine. The Plate explained everything to him slowly, and when explaining new terms, he familiarized him with the environment and the local dynamics.

  "Here, look. This is the library, a place we frequent weekly. There's a great variety of literary styles, in various languages. We receive many exchange students here, so we always renew our internal culture, to welcome and collaborate with the adaptation to a new country."

  Despite his prior prejudice regarding the Plate,with his strange style, his provocative nickname, his ironic intellectualism, his light way of being, and how kind he seemed even under that veil of rebel he had initially seen; he really fulfilled the role he had been designated to execute.

  Shortly before being introduced to the classrooms and the various laboratories for each subject, he repeated the principal's speech at a pace Lucian could understand and with easier words.

  Miguel was part of a welcome project and was a volunteer monitor in the extension of this project, which aimed to teach and assist foreigners in the local language. For a moment, he made Lucian feel less strange in the now slightly unfamiliar school environment.

  Apparently, there was no one in the school because it was some national holiday, but it would return to normal the next day. It was a surprise to see that he was willing to guide him through the school, voluntarily, even on a holiday.

  He was still accompanying him through the school; the courtyard was divided into sectors. There was the center of it, which was full of round wooden tables with padded seats, and in the center of the table, a board game.

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  He felt his mind hook a fish of grief upon seeing an abandoned chess game on one of those tables. Despite his shaken world, the Plate guided him to the other sectors of the courtyard, such as an auditorium with steps; there was a plaza that simulated this scenario, like an open-air amphitheater.

  On the other side, it was like a refectory, but with a cover, simulating a pompous greenhouse. It seemed to say that the students who ate there were the plantation of that institution and that when they left, they would be the harvest.

  The laboratories were diverse and rich in possibilities, as if by taking a certain subject one would end up graduating as a technician in it. There were three sports courts divided into: covered, with the possibility of a net—for example, for volleyball or basketball, variable—and indoor.

  He continued declaring and explaining the principal's superficial speech. The subjects were divided in a different way than usual; he commented on the school curriculum and its division: the Mandatory Base Disciplines (MBD) were defined upon enrollment based on the student's grade, but the Mandatory Elective Disciplines (MED) had to be chosen on the day of the visit, and he went on with examples of his own MED choices.

  "Well, Lucian..." he began, hesitant, "an MED can be almost anything, as long as it contributes something to society. For example, there are clubs that students found. I, for example, am part of the Cooking Club, but there are some that are founded with teacher support; I participate in two of them: the Literature Club and another for Critical Debate. In both cases, Lucian, they contribute to society."

  "How, exactly?" He wasn't used to talking much, not even responding to the cues Miguel dropped to allow him to comment, but he had too many questions to really stay silent the entire tour.

  "Alright, in the Cooking Club, on Tuesdays, everything we cook is sent to the homeless. The Literature Club, whenever it can, builds the Literature Fair, inviting people into the literary world and encouraging reading, but most of the time, we go to the orphanage or the nursing home on Wednesdays to read to their respective residents. And finally, in Critical Debate, we build a base of critical thinking and translate it in an accessible way for the population, always supporting the people to get their petitions to the responsible politicians, every two weeks, on the weekend."

  Lucian was beginning to warm up to the Plate, feeling a tremor under his skin. The vegetable garden was tended by some members of different MEDs.

  However, the more he thought about the academic environment and the various applicable areas, he realized that he wasn't telling him everything; he had only mentioned clubs and the ones he was part of, which totaled three, but it seemed there was more than he said.

  "You said an MED can be anything, but you only mentioned clubs. What else is there?" He trembled thinking about his intonation, but more comfortable spending his Portuguese than before; Miguel was welcoming him well, much more than he would like to admit.

  "Fair enough, well, I not only read to these audiences, I am also a volunteer at the Municipal Nursing Home and the Clinic for Children with Disabilities," he paused briefly, inhaling deeply, as if remembering how difficult it had been to accomplish certain feats.

  "I got permission from the organizations, the city hall, and directly from the board of education, to be able to open a volunteer program at this school to be in contact with the population."

  After a brief laugh of contentment directed at Lucian,who seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, he continued.

  "At the nursing home, I assist an elderly man, Mr. Geraldo, on Sunday mornings. He chose me because he believed it was a good idea to bring a connection between both generations. And at the clinic, on Thursdays, well, sometimes I read, other times I dress up in an attempt to cheer them up, and on other, rare occasions, when they allow it, I assist in the teaching-learning of the hospitalized children."

  Lucian perceived a tense atmosphere building, not like the moments that seemed about to break into catastrophe at home, but like his stone—yet a stone that, unlike his, made one believe Sisyphus was happy to carry out his punishment.

  He felt compassion and, at the same time, realized how busy that punk was; perhaps he didn't even fit strictly into that term, in the stereotypical version, certainly not.

  "And also, besides the clubs and the volunteer work, my dear Lucian, there are also the sports teams, the school's athletic association. I am part of the tennis team; after school, on Thursdays, I practice, but every semester there are week-long competitions and at the end of the year, there's a state-level inter-school competition."

  At that moment, Lucian allowed himself to laugh at Miguel's contagious excitement as he continued guiding him through the various laboratories and classrooms in a casual and confident way.

  He also noticed that the sport affected his companion's body; he was not only a bit taller but also hid a strength and vitality in that clothes that revealed he didn't just play tennis; he probably went to the gym.

  "I'm also a member of the school band, as a guitarist, but if they manage to organize a performance once a semester, I think it's a lot; they usually organize it on Halloween." Lucian hadn't understood the semantics of the phrase very well, but he grasped the main point.

  He was still observing his companion's behavior and how he expressed himself openly, as if he were free even amidst so many things.

  "And of course, I actively participate in every academic olympiad the coordination promotes at the institution. I'm a gold medalist, Lucian," he ironized amid a charming laugh. He was part of so many things and didn't seem to get tired; perhaps he really was what his nickname idealized.

  "Sorry, there's one more point, I rarely remember this, but I'm the editor-in-chief of the School Literary Journal, so if you want to publish a poem ridiculing someone, a chronicle about your day in the waiting line, a love confession, or perhaps, share some gossip, I'm the one you should talk to."

  After everything he had heard, as if the ground of his convictions was cracking, he thought he was incredible and formidable, but he would never say that.

  The quiet corridors came to life with Miguel's charming presence, who simulated an incarnate prose; he was so much and still more, the silence wasn't even bothersome, he didn't need to say anything and he still understood him.

  Finally, walking towards the final point of that visit, they arrived at the MED registration room, and shortly after, Miguel handed in three forms.

  "Well, these are the forms of the volunteer monitors of the Project, mine is included, so in case there's something I didn't tell you, you can see it here," he comforted him, pointing out and explaining certain points.

  Lucian observed and, understanding the social and academic dynamics of the environment better, relaxed. However, before thanking him, Miguel lowered his tone of voice.

  "I forgot to ask, sorry, Lucian. But which country are you originally from?"

  A little surprised by the sudden question, but comfortable with his welcoming presence, he thought about the words and how he would construct a sentence with them, how he would begin, reduced it, and finally answered:

  "I am from Romania."

  He felt he had spoken with the correct intonation, a clear, coherent, and cohesive statement, but he watched his eyes glow and curve along with a charming laugh that appeared on his expression, followed by a posture that initially seemed mocking, which adjusted into a familiarity that flirted with the intellectual.

  "Ce amuzant, Lucian. ?i eu sunt fluent ?n roman?.2"

  A seismic shock in Lucian's entire structure brought down even the posture that had finally inclined in deep interest for that intellectualized project he had met.

  The blush scaling his face together with his breathing, which reflected the frequency of his palpitating heart, made that land make a little sense; something there made him feel less lost.

  Despite all this,he wouldn't admit how much he was starting to appreciate him. He let himself laugh as if that had opened a space for mutual recognition.

  Miguel stayed with Lucian until he was sure he understood all the words on the volunteers' forms and the MED registration form.

  After ensuring his total comprehension in Lucian's native language, he said goodbye and wished him a good day, with a laugh that held the sensation of that earthquake moment.