The fountain.
The business school building was a generous donation from the Gentrifik family. Built of marble and columns, it stood above a rectangular fountain with a statue of the Gentrifiks in the center. The fountain’s job was to spray water, much as the Gentrifiks’ job was to spray money. Water gushed from the floor, from the Gentrifiks’ eyes, from the sides, and from the air, carried by the wind as a mist. Kids played at the edges, water lapping their feet. Adults sat at the bench surrounding the fountain, admiring the fountain by reading or being absorbed in their own problems. Students exit the fat white rectangle and run down the steps. Students take off their shoes and socks and backpack and run into the fountain. Students would climb the statue in the center, slippery footholds and all. Students would take the climb all the way to the top, miles and miles above the water, above the children and adults and reading and absorbing. Students would perch on the top, fumble their pockets, and pull an orange thing of blood thinner pills. Students would ingest them all in a gulp and leap and plummet for what seemed like forever but was really ten minutes, because that’s what it took to fall all the way down, because that’s what it took for all the blood thinners to squirm their way into the students’ veins and arteries and all the other fantastical backalleys, and students would be unthinking, per usual, and students would land with a great noise—a splash and a smear—and students would lie their in the water not moving, not feeling, not doing anything really, and students would have their blood seep out quickly like hot red milk plunged into ice water and students would have their blood circulate through the fountain and students would have their five point seven three liters of blood misted over to the adults and children and reading and absorbing who would all suddenly feel the delightful same.