Your flight was delayed. A man and a woman in black tracksuits and Salomon shoes come to pick you up. You haven’t eaten anything since the afternoon and it is now past midnight. They give you a banana. For the next month you will eat nuts and roasted vegetables.

Your name is crossed off a list and you are now in the countryside with limited access to the internet. This is part of the agreement. You have been granted time and space. You say thank you. The man and the woman in black tracksuits give you a pillow and two keys. Then they show you the kitchenette and how to walk as quietly as possible. “It is an old building you know,” she says. There are six guests in total. Each has a room and a studio.

The studio is forty square meters. The windows are smashed and the wind whistles through the sellotape that keeps the glass from completely falling apart. There are wild shrubs and foxes outside.

You have said you will use the time and space to prescribe historical meaning to the migrant story of your family. But instead you spend most of your time in the kitchenette drinking tea or in your room torturing yourself about how the other guests hate you for speaking too much about practices and discourses.

One of the guests talks to you in the national language of the country you are in. You don’t speak the language so you switch to the most commonly spoken second language in this country which isn’t your language either. He asks you where you are from. He says he used to go to your country for holidays every summer when he was a child. He doesn’t go anymore but his parents own a house on the coast.

Twice a day you walk up a mountain to connect to the internet, check your matches on Hinge, and text the girl you like from your language class back in the country you live. You tell her you like it here.

Every night you microdose, talk about identity politics, and share childhood traumas with other guests. You play music and dance too. One night the man in the black tracksuit invites you to disappear behind a door. When you get to his room he asks you if you identify as a black person. You say no. He says you look black passing. You two make out and he slides his hand inside your pants. He calls you gorgeous. His breath reminds you of the first lover you had abroad. He was enchanting and misleading, not like the girl from your language class. She appears in your dreams every night for the rest of your stay.

In the morning the man and the woman in black tracksuits are worried. There have been cuts from the government and the foundation will restrict its endowment for the guests. 70% of what they do here is financed by the foundation.

You are asked to sign a new agreement that requires guests to self-declare in favor of new founding members who equate weaponry with security. You refuse. The man and the woman in black tracksuits understand why you may not agree. “This sounds bigger than it is,” the woman says as she threatens to send you back home.

You talk to the others and feel resentful and used. Some of the guests want to burn the studios down. Among the guests who don’t care about the foundation there is one that says: “Signatures and money mean nothing to me.”

You join a protest against the foundation in the nearest biggest town and discuss solidarity with locals. Most of your Instagram followers are as outraged as you when you share the facts and the larger consequences of the foundation’s agreement not only in the place you are being hosted but the country you live in. That night you consider changing your return flight.

The man in the black tracksuit invites you to his room again. You hesitate for a moment and think about the agreement and the remaining time in this place. You accept. He takes off his clothes and kisses you and asks you to finger his anus. “Okay,” you say. You don’t quite understand how this happens so naturally. When you wake up you text the girl in your language class. She is happy to hear from you.

Only one guest signs the agreement and the foundation withdraws the funding. The man and the woman in black tracksuits leave for three days taking the car with them. On the second day the food runs out. When they come back they ask the guests to help throw a party in one of the studios to raise funds.

People from nearby towns arrive and food is served on paper plates. A blond man with a headband says that what’s happening is sad and empowering. You recognize the DJ from the protest. They have a mullet and wear an oversize chain as a necklace. They wave hello from the makeshift booth. No one else seems to notice you. The blond man is now talking about the new Charli XCX album.

The studio is fully packed and there is only one bartender serving drinks. Last time you went to order it took you an hour to get a drink. You are in the queue again, this time with the man in the black tracksuit. You want to kiss him but his friend joins you in the line. “I’m hungover,” says the friend. They laugh and chat about the previous night, how crazy it got and how everything was a joke. Their complicity makes you jealous. You try to look through the bodies in front of you and concentrate on the drinks at the bar.

The queue moves forward and they are left behind. You wait by yourself. Somehow the man wearing a black tracksuit skips the line and gets drinks for him and his friend before you. On his way back from the bar you tap his shoulder. He turns around, comes close to your ear, and mumbles, "...couldn't pay for your drink… got… and two kids."

After you order, the man in the black tracksuit and his friend make gestures with their hands for you to join. You would like to throw your drink in their faces. They keep talking about last night while they dance with other guests. You point out of the window and say “Look, there is a fox with a rabbit in its mouth,” but their vision is clouded by the lights and the laughter that have them in tears.