School for Performing Arts. Ghosts in the plaza. Seagulls nesting in the window frames. Posters of long-finished theatre shows. Shrivelled balloons at the entrance to the auditorium. A sun-ruined flyer advertising somebody’s v****a Monologues show. Stacked chairs, half-fallen over in some storm nobody was around to clear up after.
We arrive at the campus around lunchtime after more days of walking, darting from tree shade to tunnel to forest to walking with cardboard over my head just to confuse the hovering drone.
The hovering metal buzzard doesn’t see us dart inside the school. We let our guard down for a few hours. In the hall is an ocean of bean bags and big rectangles of foam. Before the h*******t, hopeful children were practising circus tricks and flips, bouncing off little trampol
