Dr. Montero's lecture hall had acoustics designed to intimidate. It was a tiered amphitheater where the sound of a dropping pen echoed like a gunshot.
I sat in the third row—not close enough to look like a suck-up, nor far enough to tune out. Beside me, Elena pulled out her latest-gen tablet and a thermos that smelled of hazelnut and vanilla. I pulled out a spiral notebook and a black ink pen with a chewed-up end.
The murmur of conversations cut off instantly when the side door opened.
Dr. Elisa Montero entered with the precision of a Swiss watch.
She was thirty-two, but she dressed as if she wanted to convince the world—and perhaps herself—that she was twenty years older. She wore a charcoal grey suit, two sizes too big, hiding any hint of a human figure under layers of severe fabric. Her hair was pulled back in a bun so tight my head hurt just looking at it, and thick-rimmed glasses dominated her face.
It was armor. I recognized it instantly because I wore my own: my ironed shirt and my silence. She dressed to be pure intellect, to erase her femininity and be nothing but an academic authority.
"Good morning," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a specific weight that commanded attention. "Put away the phones. If you want to stare at screens, go to the cinema. Here, we come to think."
She walked to the podium, placed her worn leather briefcase on the table, and scanned us. Her gaze was distant, analytical, as if we were variables in an equation that didn't quite add up.
"Today we are going to talk about the elasticity of demand in crisis markets," she announced, writing on the smartboard with angular handwriting. "Many of you believe economics is driven by charts. You are wrong. It is driven by fear and necessity."
She started throwing questions into the air. They were trick questions, designed to dismantle the common sense of those who had never had to stretch a paycheck.
A guy in the front row—one of those who wore polo shirts with horse logos—raised his hand and spat out a theoretical, perfect answer, straight from the manual.
"Technically correct, Mr. Alarcón," Dr. Montero said, adjusting her glasses. "But in practice, irrelevant. In hyperinflation, brand loyalty disappears. People don't buy what they like; they buy what they can."
There was an uncomfortable silence. She seemed disappointed, as if she expected someone in this room full of future heirs to understand what she was talking about.
My eyes met hers for a split second. I saw something there. Exhaustion. A deep fatigue she tried to hide with rectitude and professionalism. It was the look of someone trying too hard to maintain control.
"Let's see..." Her eyes scanned the attendance list on her tablet. "Lucas... Lucas what? I can't read this handwriting."
"Lucas," I said, raising my voice just enough to be heard. I didn't say my last name. Didn't need to.
She searched for me in the stands.
"Alright, Lucas. Tell me. If the price of a basic good triples, but wages stagnate, what happens to the secondary market?"
I felt everyone's eyes on the back of my neck. Including Valeria's, who was sitting in the back, arms crossed, with an expression oscillating between boredom and latent hostility.
I thought about my neighborhood. I thought about Mrs. Marta, who sold empanadas on the corner and had started letting neighbors buy on credit because no one had cash.
"The secondary market becomes the primary one," I answered without hesitating. My voice sounded raspy, but firm. "Informality grows. Barter returns. The official economy ceases to reflect reality because people start operating outside the system to survive. It's not a question of numbers; it's a question of hunger."
Dr. Montero went still. Her hand, holding the stylus over the screen, stopped.
For the first time in the class, her rigid posture relaxed a millimeter. She looked at me—really looked at me—not as just another student, but as someone speaking her same language.
There was a flash of recognition behind those thick lenses. Maybe she saw my rough hands. Maybe she recognized the tone of someone who doesn't theorize about poverty, but manages it.
"Correct," she said softly. Then, she cleared her throat and recovered her iron mask. "It is a... pragmatic analysis. Write it down."
The class continued, but the dynamic had subtly shifted. Elena gave me a gentle nudge and wrote a note in the margin of my notebook: "told u you were the favorite."
I shook my head slightly. It wasn't favoritism. It was the strange complicity of castaways recognizing each other in the middle of a yacht party.
When the class ended, the usual chaos of dragging chairs and zipping bags filled the air. I gathered my things slowly, making sure my cheap pen wasn't left behind. Every penny counted.
"Mr... Lucas."
Dr. Montero's voice stopped me when I was already in the hallway. I turned around.
She was at the door, hugging her folders against her chest like a shield. Up close, she looked younger, and the lines around her mouth betrayed a sadness that the distance of the classroom hid.
"Yes, Dr. Montero?"
"Your answer today..." She hesitated, as if she wasn't used to talking to students off the academic script. "It was insightful. Not many understand the difference between the textbook and the street."
"I have a good memory, that's all," I lied. I didn't want her pity or her admiration. I just wanted to pass and graduate.
She nodded, seeming to catch my reticence. She adjusted her glasses, a nervous tic.
"If you ever need... additional material, or references for the scholarship, my office is open. The university can be a difficult place if one doesn't have the... right backing."
It was a kind offer. Genuine. It came from her protective instinct, from that frustrated maternity she poured into her work. But I had the pride of a stray animal that distrusts the hand offering food.
"Thank you, Professor. But I'm fine."
I turned and walked away before she could see the lie in my eyes.
No, I wasn't fine. I was exhausted, stressed, and alone. But she, with her grey suit and air of contained fragility, seemed to have her own demons. and I didn't have time to carry anyone else's.
Stepping out of the building, the mid-morning sun hit my face. I pulled out my cheap phone and checked the time. I had forty minutes to cross the city and get to the warehouse.
The honor student disappeared here. Now it was the warehouse worker's turn.