It was not that she had not made friends, not found people she identified with, not laughed with other students in those cozy Oxford pubs, not gotten drunk with them, made out, built suitcase robots that toilet-papered rival dorms—it was that she had conducted all of that at a distance. There was the her doing those things, and there was, as if somewhere behind glass (for some reason she thought of the warped portholes of the ground transport unit), another Ha, always untouched, observing and never being observed.
serial killer vibes much?
