Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A lice

Whoever had pinned the flyer on the department bulletin board had put it off in the corner, as if to ensure that whoever noticed it would have to be desperate to find something—anything—that might keep their dreams afloat.

SELECTA Europe Scholarships

for graduate study in the humanities abroad

mail [email protected] for details

I frowned as I read it. So… Selecta giveth and Selecta taketh away?

My frown became a grimace as I thought about it. Blessed be the Name of Selecta?

In this case, the taketh away part had happened first: Selecta ending humanities graduate programs at all their subsidized universities, when I had one semester left of my degree in French history. I had had every expectation of being one of the lucky few who had a shot at a spot in a PhD program and, afterward, an academic job. Not glamorous, but steady—and, more important, the career I had dreamed of.

I didn’t have much hope, because after the crushing disappointment of the news four months ago, a scholarship to study in Europe seemed much too good to be true. I mailed the address anyway, though, because why the fuck not.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out, expecting another message from my roommate about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. Instead, I saw an email from [email protected].

My heart raced as I opened it, hardly daring to hope. The message was terse:

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Thank you for your interest in the SELECTA Europe Scholarships program. To proceed with your application, we require the following:

1. Full access to all your social media accounts

2. Agreement to undergo a comprehensive medical examination if your candidacy advances

Please reply to this email with your consent to both conditions within twenty-four hours to continue the application process.

Regards,

SELECTA Europe Scholarships Team

I stared at my phone, baffled. Why would they need my social media? And a medical exam? For a scholarship?

My thumb hovered over the reply button as I chewed my lip. This seemed invasive, even for Selecta. But what choice did I have? My dreams of becoming a French history professor were slipping away with each passing day.

I thought of the dusty archives in Paris I longed to explore, the musty smell of centuries-old documents, the thrill of uncovering some long-forgotten detail about life in medieval France. I imagined myself lecturing in a grand hall, students hanging on my every word as I brought the past to vivid life.

With a deep breath, I hit reply. What could it hurt? I hadn’t done much partying in college—definitely nothing embarrassing. My socials held only a few musings about history and literature that already made me cringe when they popped up in ‘One Year Ago’ notifications, but I didn’t think they could cost me a scholarship.

And a medical exam? Sure—maybe Selecta just wanted to be sure I wouldn’t drop dead in the middle of my scholarship. I might even have thought it a rare sign of actual compassion, if I hadn’t suspected it had more to do with how much it would cost them to ship my body home.

I provided my social network logins and consented to the medical exam. This time the reply from Selecta came in even less time.

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Thank you for your continued interest. Please report to West Hall Room 205 tomorrow at one p.m. sharp for a written qualifying examination.

Regards,

SELECTA Europe Scholarships Team

The next day, I arrived at West Hall fifteen minutes early, my nerves jangling. The hallway was eerily quiet as I made my way to Room 205. I had expected to see other anxious students milling about, but the corridor was deserted.

I hesitated before the closed door, taking a deep breath to steady myself. This was it—my one shot at salvaging my academic dreams. I smoothed my blouse, pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and knocked.

“Come in,” called a crisp female voice.

I entered to find a spartan classroom. A lone figure sat behind the teacher’s desk—a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun. Her piercing gaze raked over me as I approached.

“Alice Morgan?” she asked, consulting a sheet of paper.

I nodded, unsure if I should speak.

“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the empty desks. “You may begin as soon as I distribute the exam.”

I glanced around the room, bewildered. “Excuse me, but… am I the only one taking this test?”

The woman’s lips thinned. “That is correct. Now, please be seated.”

Confusion and unease prickled along my skin as I chose a desk in the middle of the room. Why was I the only candidate? Surely others had seen that flyer?

The proctor placed a single sheet of paper face down on my desk, and then a blue book. Her heels clicked against the linoleum as she returned to her own. “You have two hours. Begin.”

With trembling fingers, I flipped over the exam paper. My eyes widened as I read the two essay prompts, from which the directions said I must choose one:

1. Discuss the impact of the Napoleonic Code on modern French legal systems, with particular attention to property rights and gender equality.

2. Analyze the history and importance of family discipline in France from the medieval period to the Enlightenment, including the use of corporal punishment in noble households.

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I read the second prompt. Family discipline? Corporal punishment? What kind of scholarship exam was this?

I glanced up at the proctor, but her stern face revealed nothing. Swallowing hard, I focused on the first question. The Napoleonic Code I could handle. I’d written papers on it before. This was familiar territory.

Taking a deep breath, I picked up my pen and began to write. I lost myself in the flow of words, explaining how Napoleon’s legal reforms had shaped modern French civil law. I delved into the Code’s treatment of marriage, divorce, and inheritance rights. My pen flew across the page as I discussed its lasting influence on gender roles in French society.

But even as I wrote, my mind kept drifting to that second prompt. Why ask about family discipline and corporal punishment on a history exam? The question seemed designed to make students uncomfortable. Who would ever choose to write on such a mortifying topic?

Before I knew it, the proctor’s voice cut through my concentration. “Time’s up. Please put down your pen.”

I blinked, disoriented. Had two hours really passed already? My hand ached from writing, and I flexed my cramped fingers as the proctor collected my blue book. Her face remained impassive as she glanced at my essay, giving no hint of approval or disappointment.

“You will be notified of the results by email within twenty-four hours,” she said crisply. “You may go.”

I gathered my things in a daze, my mind still churning with half-formed thoughts about Napoleonic property laws. As I stepped out into the hallway, the silence felt ominous. No excited chatter of fellow test-takers comparing answers, no sighs of relief or groans of frustration. Just the echo of my own footsteps as I made my way out of the building.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I tried to distract myself with mundane tasks—laundry, grocery shopping, even tackling the pile of dishes in the sink. But every few minutes, I found myself compulsively checking my phone. No new emails.

That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. What if I’d misinterpreted the prompt? What if my essay wasn’t detailed enough? What if this was all some elaborate prank, and I’d never hear back at all?

I tried not to obsess over the exam, but found myself compulsively checking my phone every few minutes. The harsh blue glow of the screen illuminated my bedroom at two a.m., three a.m., four a.m. as I refreshed my inbox again and again. Sleep eluded me, my mind racing with doubts and questions.

When my alarm finally blared at seven, I stumbled out of bed in a fog of exhaustion. As I waited for my coffee to brew, I absentmindedly opened my email once more. My breath caught in my throat. There it was—a message from [email protected].

With trembling fingers, I tapped to open it:

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Congratulations. You have successfully passed the qualifying examination for the SELECTA Europe Scholarships program.

Your medical examination is scheduled for today at one p.m. at the University Health Center. Please arrive promptly. Failure to attend will result in immediate disqualification from the program.

Regards,

SELECTA Europe Scholarships Team

Relief and excitement flooded through me, chasing away my fatigue. I’d passed! I allowed myself a moment of giddy celebration, twirling around my tiny kitchen. The morning crawled by as I showered, dressed, and attempted to eat something despite my churning stomach.

At 12:45, I arrived at the University Health Center, my nerves jangling. The antiseptic smell hit me as soon as I stepped through the sliding glass doors, making my stomach lurch. I approached the reception desk on unsteady legs.

“Alice Morgan, here for a one o’clock appointment,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked up from her computer. Her gaze swept over me, and something in her expression made my skin prickle. Was that… pity in her eyes?

“Of course, dear,” she said softly. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I settled into one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area, my mind racing. Why had the receptionist looked at me like that? It was just a routine medical exam, wasn’t it? But then why did I feel like I was waiting for my own execution?

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, a door opened. “Alice Morgan?” called a crisp voice.

I stood, smoothing my skirt with damp palms. The nurse who’d called my name was tall and lean, with close-cropped silver hair. Her face was impassive as she beckoned me to follow her down a long hallway.

We stopped before a nondescript door. The nurse pushed it open, revealing a stark examination room. My heart rate sped up as I took in the gleaming metal surfaces, the instruments atop a cart, and the exam table in the center.

I stepped into the room, my heart pounding. The nurse closed the door behind us with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sterile space.

“Please remove all your clothing and place it on the chair,” she instructed, her tone brisk and professional.

I blinked, taken aback. “Um, don’t I get a gown or something?”

The nurse’s expression didn’t change. “That won’t be necessary for this examination. Please disrobe completely.”

My cheeks burned as I hesitantly began to unbutton my blouse. The nurse busied herself with something on the metal tray, giving me a semblance of privacy. I stripped down to my underwear, then paused, my fingers on the clasp of my bra.

“Everything, dear,” the nurse prompted without turning around.

Swallowing hard, I removed my bra and panties, folding them neatly atop the pile of my clothes. I stood there, naked and shivering, my arms crossed over my chest in a futile attempt at modesty.

“Just step on the scale for me, please,” the nurse said.

I did, and the nurse recorded the result—of which I felt some pride—without comment, then measured my height.

“Up on the table, please,” she said. “Go ahead and lie back.”

I climbed onto the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath me. As I reclined, something caught my eye that made my blood run cold. Webbing straps, with Velcro fastenings, hung from the sides of the table, clearly meant to restrain a patient’s wrists and ankles.

“W-why are there restraints?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

My heart pounded as I stared at them, a chill running through my naked body. The nurse’s expression remained impassive as she approached the table.

“It’s a standard precaution,” she said calmly. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

But alarm bells were ringing in my head. This was far from standard. I sat up, ready to bolt for the door.

“I don’t think I want to go through with this,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’ll just leave and give up my spot in the program.”

The nurse’s eyes flashed with something—pity? Regret? No…

Disapproval. I swallowed hard, my cheeks flushing hot.

“You’ll understand soon, dear,” she said softly. “Or you may leave and, yes, give up your spot in the program. But you and I both know you won’t do that. This opportunity won’t come again.”

I hesitated, torn between my instinct to flee and my desperate desire to salvage my academic dreams. What would happen if I stayed? But what future did I have if I left?

The nurse waited silently as I wrestled with the decision. My mind raced, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. Was I overreacting? Maybe this was just an unorthodox exam. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation.

Or maybe I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll stay.”