Beyond them, the campus unfolds like something from a dream. Or a magazine spread. Manicured lawns stretch between buildings of grey stone, ivy climbing their walls in disciplined patterns. A clock tower rises above it all, its face catching the weak afternoon sun.

The driver pops the trunk without a word. You've seen his eyes flick to you in the rearview mirror more than once during the ride, taking in your worn duffel bag, your secondhand winter coat, the way you pressed your face to the window like a kid at a candy store.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

Through the gates, a handful of students mill about on the main walkway. Their clothes are casual but expensive—soft wool sweaters, leather bags that probably cost more than your grandpa's truck, the kind of effortless polish that comes from never having to think about price tags. A girl with perfectly highlighted hair laughs at something on her phone, and the sound carries, bright and hollow.

The taxi pulls away, leaving you standing at the entrance with your duffel bag at your feet and your breath clouding in front of your face.

A sign to your left points toward the athletic complex. Another toward the main hall. A third, smaller and wooden, reading Dormitories →.