A bus. A driver and a supervisor. Teachers, workers, and students.

A beehive.

Well, not really a beehive. It was more like a beehive transport. A leaf that moved on its own and could carry all the bees to the beehive.

That’s the closest metaphor she could think of, anyway.

The Bogotan countryside stretched outside the bus to the right. Endless fields reached all the way to the the tall, dark green mountains. Scattered cows, houses, and fences were in the fields. It was like they had been dropped at random by a giant hand above it all.

The bus traveled like a bullet down the highway. It passed cars and moved through the suburban landscape.

The bus reached the school and parked at its assigned place. The parking lot was nearly empty. It was still early.

She got out of the bus. She thanked both the supervisor and the driver.

The driver was a tall, thin man. He had a kind voice when he spoke. A certain slang and drawl in his voice made words sound calm.

She walked under the administration building. It was where all the administrative staff worked. The workers that came with her on the bus entered the building instead of passing straight through it like she did.

Those bees have reached their part of the beehive, she thought.

She kept going.

To reach the high school building, she had to pass in front of the elementary school building. It was a three-story building made of brick and metal. The metal was painted red. All the classroom doors were red. So were the bulletin boards hanging in the hallways. They presented colorful posters, diplomas, and announcements.

Sam was entering the building. He was a tall, thin man. He was a former teacher of hers, and a beloved one.

She smiled to herself. He was one of the many foreign teachers her Colombian school hired. Sam was British. The same year she was in Sam's class, her classmates had a Canadian teacher.

Jordan. I think that’s what his name was, she remembered.

Both teachers had been very kind. They were all-time favorites who were still there.

She caught Sam’s eye. He greeted her with his warm smile.

She kept walking on the brick path. A cold fog clouded the chapel’s entrance, to the right.

She passed in front of the middle school building. She had to pass it to reach her building. It had the same design as the elementary school building. But the railings and doors and signs and bulletin boards were blue.

Before she entered the building, she looked to one side. An office with a window looked to the outside of the building.

The teacher that worked in that office had not yet arrived. His name was Juan Carlos. He was one of the teachers she loved most. He was a kind man with a slight Bogotan accent. A history teacher, very kind, but with little patience for disobedience.

She crossed the middle school building through an open hallway that passed through a few classrooms. Some students had already arrived. Some she knew, and some she didn’t.

She left the middle school building. She followed the open path to the high school building. A few students were talking on a balcony that was reserved for twelfth graders. Some students were finishing assignments before class started.

She entered the building and crossed to the other side of the building. A set of sofas and chairs waited.

On the inside, it was an open building. The second and third floors didn’t cover the first floor completely. Skylights let the light in.

A few students had arrived. They were hoping the minutes would pass slower and delay the start of class.