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  Elisa quickly extracted the euro coin she'd had with her from her jeans, and placed it in the square on the transparency.

  "Our friend feels safe with his euro in that bank. Nobody, absolutely no one, can penetrate any of the box's sides. Or, at least, no one from his world. But I can steal it easily, from the third dimension—height—which is invisible to the inhabitants of his flat universe." As she spoke, Elisa took the coin back and replaced the transparency with another one that had on it a different drawing. "You can imagine how the poor man feels when he opens his box and finds that all his savings have disappeared. How could anyone have robbed him if the box was never opened?"

  "Guess he's pretty pissed off," whispered a boy in the front row with brightly colored glasses and a crew cut. Laughter. Elisa didn't mind that they were laughing, nor did she care about their apparent lack of concentration. She knew it had been a simplistic example, rudimentary for top-notch students, but that was exactly what she wanted. She wanted to open the door as wide as possible on their way in, because she knew only a few would be able to find their way out. So she stifled their laughter, speaking now in a different, much quieter, tone.

  "Just as that man can't even conceive of how he was robbed, we can't conceive of more than three dimensions around us. Now then," she said, stressing each word carefully, "this example proves that dimensions can affect us, even lead to events we wouldn't hesitate to call 'supernatural'..." Suddenly, they were all murmuring, talking over her. She knew they would. They think I'm exaggerating, veering into science fiction. They're physics students, they know I'm talking about reality, but they can't accept it. From the little forest of hands that had shot up, she chose one. "Yes, Yolanda?"

  Blonde-haired and wide-eyed, she was one of the few women in a class full of young men. Elisa was pleased that she'd been the first to take things seriously.

  "Your example is unfair," Yolanda said. "The coin is three-dimensional. Even though it's not very tall, it does possess height. If it had been drawn inside the box, like it should have been, you couldn't have stolen it."

  Intense whispering. Elisa, who was ready for this, feigned surprise so as not to dishearten her clever student.

  "Good point, Yolanda. And you're right. Good science is based on that kind of observation: apparently simple, yet vital. However, even if the coin had been drawn onto the paper, like the man and the square, I still could have erased it." Laughter erupted, keeping her from continuing for a few seconds. Five, to be exact.

  Though she didn't know it, she had twelve seconds left before her entire life would blow up around her.

  The big clock on the wall at the back of the class showed the time. Elisa glanced at it quickly, never suspecting that the long hand sweeping across the clock's face had begun a countdown to what would destroy her present and her future.

  Forever. Irreversibly.

  "What I want you to see," she continued, patting the air to indicate that they should simmer down, oblivious to everything but the wavelength that she and her students were on, "is that different dimensions can affect each other, in one way or another. Let me give you another example."

  When she was planning class, she'd initially intended to draw this example on the board. But now she saw the newspaper folded on the lectern. On days when she had class, she always bought the paper at the kiosk on the way into campus and then read it in the cafeteria afterward. Now it occurred to her that her students might understand this next example better (it was far more complicated) if she used an object instead.

  She opened the paper to a page at random and spread it out. "Imagine that this piece of newspaper is a spatial plane..."

  She glanced down to extract the page without messing up the rest of the paper. And saw it.

  Horror is quick. We can be horrified before we're even aware of it. Before we realize why, our hands tremble, the blood drains from our face, something falls to the pit of our stomach. Elisa had glanced momentarily at one of the headlines on the upper-right-hand side of the page, and, even before understanding what it meant, she felt a rush of adrenaline and froze.

  She took in the basic information in a matter of seconds. But those seconds were eternal. While they lasted, she was barely aware of her students' existence, of the fact that they'd all fallen silent and were waiting for her to continue. That they'd begun to realize that something was not right, to nudge one another, clear their throats, turn around to glance questioningly at each other.

  A new Elisa looked up and confronted the silent expectancy she'd given rise to.

  "Uh, so ... Imagine that I fold the plane here," she continued unfalteringly, in the monotonous voice of an automaton.

  Without knowing how, she carried on. She wrote equations on the board, solved them effortlessly, asked questions, and gave additional examples. It was a heroic, superhuman feat that no one seemed to pick up on. Or did they? She wondered if Yolanda, ever attentive in the front row, had noted the panic coursing through her.

  "Let's leave it here for today," she said, when there were five minutes of class left. "I warn you that from here on out, everything is going to get much more complicated," she added, trembling at the irony of her words.

  HER office was at the end of the hall. Luckily, her colleagues were all busy and she didn't bump into anyone on her way back. She walked in, closed the door, locked it, sat down at her desk, opened the newspaper, and almost tore the page, inspecting it as carefully as someone poring over a list of dead, praying not to find a loved one's name but knowing, inevitably, that it will jump out as if in another color.

  The news offered almost no details, just the probable date of the incident: it hadn't been discovered until the following day, but it seemed likely it had taken place Monday, sometime during the night of March 9, 2015.

  The day before yesterday.

  She couldn't breathe.

  Just then, a shadow filled the frosted glass of her office door.

  Though she knew it had to be something run of the mill (a cleaner, a colleague), Elisa stood up, unable to utter a word. You're next.

  The shadow stood motionless before her door. She heard the sound of the lock.

  Elisa was not a coward; she was tremendously brave, in fact. But at that moment a child's laughter could have sent shivers down her spine. She felt something cold on her back and realized that she'd unconsciously backed so far up that she was pressed against the wall. Long, damp hair half-covered her sweaty face.

  Finally, the door opened.

  Sometimes terror is almost like death, a dry run that momentarily strips away your voice, your sight, your vital functions, and for as long as it lasts, you can't breathe, can't think, your heart stops beating. At that horrific moment, that was what happened to Elisa. When the man saw her, he started. It was Pedro, one of the custodians. He held a ring of keys and a stack of mail.

  "Oh. Sorry. I didn't realize you were in here. I just thought... since you never come straight back after class ... OK if I come in? I was just going to leave you your mail."

  Elisa murmured something. Pedro smiled, walked in, and dropped the stack of envelopes on her desk. Then he left, though not without first glancing down at the paper and at Elisa's face. She didn't care. Actually, his sudden interruption had helped her shake off the feeling of absolute terror that had overcome her.

  She suddenly realized exactly what she had to do.

  She folded up the paper, stuck it in her bag, flicked through the mail (internal memos and correspondence from other universities, nothing she had to deal with immediately), and walked out.

  Above all, she had to save her life.

  02

  VICTOR Lopera's office was right across from hers. Victor, who had just arrived, was taking moderate pleasure in photocopying the rebus from the morning paper. He was a huge fan of rebuses, riddles, word games, and puzzles, and had whole albums full of things he'd taken from the Internet, newspapers, and magazines. As the sheet of paper slid into its tray, he heard the knock
on his door. "Yep?"

  The change in his mild expression when he saw Elisa was barely even perceptible. His dark, bushy eyebrows raised slightly, and beneath his glasses and smooth-shaven cheeks the corners of his mouth lengthened just slightly, in what might (on Victor's understated scale of conduct) be interpreted as a smile.

  Elisa was used to his character. She was very fond of Victor, despite his shyness. He was one of the people she most trusted. But right then, there was only one way he could help her.

  "How's the puzzle looking today?" She smiled, tucking her hair back. It was a routine question. Victor liked the fact that she showed an interest in his hobby and often told her about the most interesting rebuses. There weren't many people he could talk to about that sort of thing.

  "Pretty easy." He showed her the photocopy, which bore the caption "Where to look for encouragement," and showed a picture of a pointed instrument that resembled an ice pick, suspended above what looked like a large flounder, or some kind of flat fish. "All over the place. Get it? Awl over the plaice?"

  "Not bad," said Elisa, laughing. Try to look nonchalant. She wanted to scream, to run away, but she knew she had to keep her cool. No one was going to help her, at least not yet. She was alone. "Hey, Victor, would you tell Teresa I'm not going to be able to make it to the quantum seminar this afternoon? She's not in her office and I really need to take off."

  "Sure." Another almost imperceptible eyebrow movement. "Anything wrong?"

  "I have a headache, and I think I may have a fever, too. Might be the flu."

  "Oh, dear."

  "Yeah, I know."

  That "oh, dear" was as close as Victor would come to showing his affection, and Elisa knew it. They looked at each other for a second, and then Victor said, "No problem. I'll tell her."

  She thanked him. As she was walking out, she heard a faint "Feel better."

  Victor stood, photocopy in hand, staring after her, for quite some time. Beneath his large, old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses, his face showed only a slightly disconcerted look. But deep down, he was worried.

  THERE'S no one to help you.

  She headed to her car in the university lot. The sky was almost white on that cold, March morning, and she shivered. She knew that she didn't have the flu, but she thought that given the circumstances, one little white lie was more than forgivable.

  Every few seconds, she turned to glance around her. No one. You're alone. And you haven't even gotten the call. Right?

  She took her cell phone out of her purse to check her messages. Nothing. And no new e-mails on her computer watch. Alone.

  Thousands of questions raced through her mind, an incessant stream of concerns and possibilities. She realized how nervous she was when she fumbled and almost dropped her remote-control door opener. Once in the car, she maneuvered carefully, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and thinking through every movement of the clutch and the accelerator as if this were her first driving test. She decided not to hook up the car's computer, preferring to drive with no assistance. It would help her keep calm.

  She pulled out of the faculty lot and took the Colmenar road, heading back toward Madrid. Nothing unusual in her rearview mirror: cars passing each other, no one following her as far as she could tell. When she came to the northern edge of town, she took the road heading down toward her neighborhood.

  Then, as she was crossing Hortaleza, her cell phone rang. She glanced over at the passenger seat. The phone was inside her purse, and she hadn't connected it to the car's speakers. She slowed down and slid one hand into her purse, rummaging frantically for it. This is it, this is the call. The sound and vibration seemed to be coming from underground. She felt around like a blind person: change purse, charger, the shape of the phone. Answer it, answer it now.

  Finally, she managed to pull it out of her bag, but as she did, it slipped from her sweaty fingers, falling onto the car seat and then bouncing from there to the floor. She had to retrieve it.

  Suddenly, a shape came out of nowhere and filled her windshield. She didn't even have time to scream. She instinctively jammed on the brakes. The force of the sudden stop slammed her hard against the seat belt. The guy, a young man, jumped back and then angrily pounded the hood of the car with his fist. Elisa realized she was in a crosswalk. She hadn't been paying attention. She raised her hand in apology and could easily hear the man's insults through the window's glass. Other pedestrians glowered at her disapprovingly.

  Calm down. You can't do anything in this state. Calm down and get yourself home.

  Her phone had stopped ringing. Still sitting there in the crosswalk, Elisa ignored the other cars' honking and bent down, grabbed the phone, and glanced at the screen. Blank. No phone number showing where the call had come from. Don't worry; if that was it, they'll call again.

  She placed her cell carefully on the passenger seat and continued on her way. Ten minutes later, she pulled into her building's parking garage on Silvano. Ruling out the elevator, she rushed up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

  Though she knew it would do no good, she locked each of the four security locks and the magnetic chain on her reinforced door (she'd had it installed three years ago, and it had cost a fortune). Then she set the alarm. Next, she made her way through the apartment, systematically closing all of her electronic blinds (even the ones on the kitchen door that led to the laundry room) and turning on all the lights. Before closing the dining-room blinds, she peeked out to look down at the street.

  Cars drove by, people strolled along, their sounds muffled as if they were in an aquarium; she saw almond trees and graffiti on walls. Life went on. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Elisa closed the last blind.

  Next, she turned on lights in the bathroom, the kitchen, and her little exercise room, which had no windows. Then she switched on the night-table lamps flanking her unmade bed, magazines and math and physics notes scattered across it.

  A wad of black silk lay bunched up at the foot of the bed. Last night she'd been playing Mr. White Eyes and still hadn't picked up the underwear strewn across the floor. She bent down and grabbed it now, shuddering (thinking about her "game" now made it seem even creepier), and stuffing it untidily into a dresser drawer. Before leaving the room, she stopped for a moment in front of her huge framed picture of the moon (the first thing she saw when she awoke every morning) and flicked the switch on its frame. The celestial body took on a white, phosphorescent glow. Back in the dining room, she turned on the remaining lights (floor lamps, undershelf lighting) from a central control panel. Finally, she did the same with two battery-charged lamps.

  Her answering machine flashed the number "2." She listened to her messages, holding her breath. One was from the publisher of a scientific journal she subscribed to, and the other from her cleaning woman. Elisa only had her come when she could be home; she didn't want anyone invading her privacy in her absence. The cleaning woman wanted to know if she could change days next week so she could go to the doctor. Elisa didn't call back. She just erased the message.

  Then she turned on her forty-inch digital TV. On several news channels, she found the weather, sports, and financial reports. She opened a dialogue box, typed in a few keywords, and the television did an automatic search for the news she wanted. No results. She left CNN on in English and muted it.

  After thinking for a minute, she ran to the kitchen and opened an electronic drawer below the thermostat. Elisa found what she was looking for at the back of it. She'd bought it a year ago for this very purpose, despite the fact that she knew it would do no good.

  She stared for a moment at her own terrified eyes, reflected on the blade of the sixteen-inch butcher knife.

  ELISA waited.

  She'd gone back to the dining room and, after picking up the phone to make sure it was still working, and double-checking the battery on her cell, dropped into an armchair in front of the TV, the knife in her lap.

  Waiting.

  The enormous teddy bear h
er colleagues had given her for her birthday last year sat in a corner of the sofa across from her. It wore a bib that had "Happy Birthday" stitched in red, with the Alighieri University logo (Dante's aquiline profile) underneath. On its stomach, in gold, was the university motto: The sea I sail has never yet been passed. The bear's plastic eyes seemed to spy on Elisa, and its heart-shaped mouth looked like it was speaking to her.

  Go ahead, do whatever you want. Protect yourself, fool yourself into thinking you're safe now. But you know you're dead.

  She glanced back at the screen, which was broadcasting the launch of a new European space probe.

  Dead, Elisa. Just like the rest of them.

  The shrieking of the telephone made her jump. But then a surprising thing happened: she reached out calmly and picked up the receiver in something resembling absolute composure. Now that she'd finally received the call, she felt unbelievably serene. There was no hint of trembling in her voice.

  "Hello?"

  "Elisa? It's Victor..."

  The overwhelming disappointment left her dazed. It was as if she'd tensed up for a punch and suddenly the fight had been called off. She took a breath, as an irrational wave of hatred for her friend suddenly flowed through her. It wasn't Victor's fault, but right then she couldn't have wanted to speak to anyone less. Leave me alone. Hang up and leave me alone.

  "I just wanted to see how you were doing. You seemed a little ... Well, just not yourself. You know..."

  "I'm fine, don't worry. Just a headache... I don't even think it's the flu."

  "Oh, good." He cleared his throat. And paused. Though she was used to Victor speaking at a snail's pace, right now it was thoroughly exasperating. "Don't worry about the seminar. Noriega says no problem. If you can't come in this week ... just... let Teresa know in advance..."