lay, as a warning to others unwilling to do their part. A wind flitted through his avatar's ears and hair. He looked around. His uniformed comrades approved with a few casual nods from the far corners of the large assembly--there would be no more work refusals after this little show. There was more silence, save the cold wind rustling through the camp. Richard pulled at the helmet and then began reaching frantically for the helmet’s straps. He couldn’t get to them in time and was sick into his helmet. He choked on the vomit; it had gotten into his lungs, making every acidic attempt to breathe a sharp and painful endeavor. He fell from his chair, still grabbing at the straps. The helmet saved his head from a very hard thud against the floor as he fell, nevertheless, into unconscious.
Richard Hayes awoke in a state of pitch-black burning filth. His nose and eyes were raw. He could barely breathe; all was dark in the plastic helmet, his chin and neck coated with drying chunks of vomit. Richard crawled to his makeshift desk and reached for a knife. He began to cut the straps and flung the helmet off his head and across the room, hitting the tile floor with a crack and finally rolling across the kitchen's linoleum. Fraulein had been lying next to him. It was her whimpering that awoken him.
Staggering, he stood and looked at the computer. He thought of his classroom, the computers, the cables, the painted window, the speckled sound-absorbing school-house ceiling tile, the aircon blowing against the cardboard boxes. It all looked different in his mind. He immediately thought of the students, some probably having experienced what he had experienced—maybe far worse. Which were guards? Which were prisoners? He pitied them. As of this morning, this wasn’t just an online game.
Richard stayed home the following week. He had months of sick days saved up and used up a small fraction of them while recovering from the mental and physical exhaustion of that Saturday morning. He didn’t touch the game in that time but rather took long walks with Fraulein across the scrubby fields and even worked a little in his small, weedy garden of spicy peppers and cilantro. He also started to plan classroom routines that didn’t involve the game, like in years past, before he discovered it, when he would rotate students through computers and Internet activities in pairs and small groups. Daily, he faxed new lesson plans to the school secretary. Most of the students wouldn't be happy though some might be relieved. The refrigerator boxes would need to be flattened and moved out of the room.
When Hayes returned to school, a few students showed some concern for his absence. A rumor had begun to circulate that he was getting chemotherapy treatments. Cards and small gifts filled his desk and mail cubby: “To the greatest teacher ever! Get well soon!” A shiver ran up his back as he read these, looking out at the classroom and wondering about the individual experiences that had occurred within those dark boxes.
Over the next weeks, Richard Hayes still used his computers and students worked collaboratively through applications via the normal Google browser. He had discontinued the use of the game, avoiding any reference to it when he could, almost as if it hadn’t ever been played. When students started to complain after the first few days of his return, realizing that this wasn’t just a temporary stay in their learning routine, Hayes would simply mutter something nebulous about the browser not working with the new software upgrades. Several of the brighter students offered to help him get the problem fixed, but Hayes would just smile. “Thanks guys. We’re doing what can be done.”
Hayes pretended not to notice when students insisted on the game, repeated daily for a while, during every period by some of the more vocal seniors. Gradually, however, routines
Richard Hayes awoke in a state of pitch-black burning filth. His nose and eyes were raw. He could barely breathe; all was dark in the plastic helmet, his chin and neck coated with drying chunks of vomit. Richard crawled to his makeshift desk and reached for a knife. He began to cut the straps and flung the helmet off his head and across the room, hitting the tile floor with a crack and finally rolling across the kitchen's linoleum. Fraulein had been lying next to him. It was her whimpering that awoken him.
Staggering, he stood and looked at the computer. He thought of his classroom, the computers, the cables, the painted window, the speckled sound-absorbing school-house ceiling tile, the aircon blowing against the cardboard boxes. It all looked different in his mind. He immediately thought of the students, some probably having experienced what he had experienced—maybe far worse. Which were guards? Which were prisoners? He pitied them. As of this morning, this wasn’t just an online game.
Richard stayed home the following week. He had months of sick days saved up and used up a small fraction of them while recovering from the mental and physical exhaustion of that Saturday morning. He didn’t touch the game in that time but rather took long walks with Fraulein across the scrubby fields and even worked a little in his small, weedy garden of spicy peppers and cilantro. He also started to plan classroom routines that didn’t involve the game, like in years past, before he discovered it, when he would rotate students through computers and Internet activities in pairs and small groups. Daily, he faxed new lesson plans to the school secretary. Most of the students wouldn't be happy though some might be relieved. The refrigerator boxes would need to be flattened and moved out of the room.
When Hayes returned to school, a few students showed some concern for his absence. A rumor had begun to circulate that he was getting chemotherapy treatments. Cards and small gifts filled his desk and mail cubby: “To the greatest teacher ever! Get well soon!” A shiver ran up his back as he read these, looking out at the classroom and wondering about the individual experiences that had occurred within those dark boxes.
Over the next weeks, Richard Hayes still used his computers and students worked collaboratively through applications via the normal Google browser. He had discontinued the use of the game, avoiding any reference to it when he could, almost as if it hadn’t ever been played. When students started to complain after the first few days of his return, realizing that this wasn’t just a temporary stay in their learning routine, Hayes would simply mutter something nebulous about the browser not working with the new software upgrades. Several of the brighter students offered to help him get the problem fixed, but Hayes would just smile. “Thanks guys. We’re doing what can be done.”
Hayes pretended not to notice when students insisted on the game, repeated daily for a while, during every period by some of the more vocal seniors. Gradually, however, routines
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