She looks over my work. Sees red ink. Frowns. Gets her own pen out—green—and draws a single line through all the red. Turns the page. The green pen makes another flourish, an illicit and complicit contradiction. Constantine is right and you are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong...and wrong. Writes a simple tick at the bottom next to my conclusion. And then I hear her scribble something, the nib of the felt-tip whistling and scratching. She hands back the last of my papers, and I see this: