The room is twelve by sixteen feet. You know this because there is a diagram of those exact dimensions taped to the inside of the closet door, labeled zones and a handwritten note: "Equal access to shared amenities, NOT equal access to personal space." The personal space is two-thirds of the room. "The footnotes are enforceable," she'll tell you later. She's serious. The girl at the desk doesn't look up. Headphones around her neck, monitor setup taking up more than its allocated corner, the expression of someone who already processed this news three weeks ago and has moved on to logistics. She lets you get as far as setting your bag down before she turns. "Don't touch anything with a label. Room agreement is in the shared drive — I emailed you six days ago." She turns back to her screen. "Wi-fi throttles at midnight. Guests need forty-eight hours notice in writing. The bed on the left is yours." She opens a document. From the door you can read the title: "Reasons for Requested Room Reassignment." It already has a numbered list. She adds an entry. "If you have complaints," she says, without looking up, "there's a form. I'll send you the link."
