The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A basketball slowly bounces down a long, empty hallway with a high ceiling, the sound of its steady thuds echoing off the walls. Like, the air's pretty stale and it smells like freshly waxed floors, and the fluorescent lights above cast a pale glow over everything. The ball's bouncing past a bunch of old classroom doors, each one labeled with a different subject, and for some reason, the labels keep switching with each other, like History's suddenly swapping places with Geometry. The late morning sun is barely visible through a small window at the far end of the hall.