At first, I’m too scared to move, but after a few minutes, I raise my hand. No one seems to notice. Nobody’s pen moves; and the invigilators have stopped marching down the aisles.

One teacher, who’d been cleaning the whiteboard where the time updates are marked, now has his arm frozen above his head, the duster still trapped in his hand.

Very slowly, I rise from my seat.

As I walk down the rows, quietly making my way to the front, I glance down at every student I pass.

When I get to Elana, I tap her on the shoulder, “What’s going on?” But she’s frozen and cannot answer me.

Once I’m at the front of the room, I wave my arms, hoping to grab someone’s attention, but they’re all zombies. Something’s not right. Would anyone pull a practical joke during a matric exam? Not even Sizwe would try something like this. And how would they convince the adults to participate? A sick feeling twists my insides — something is very, very wrong.

I turn to the adults at the front.

“Sir? Ma’am?”

No response.

Once I am certain I’m not dreaming or a participant in some cruel trick, I decide to walk out. Leaving an exam room without permission or supervision is an offence that could get me disqualified. If I score zero for maths my mother will bury me alive. But I’m out of ideas.

So I go looking for Mrs Harris. She’d never try to trick me.

As I pass the other opened classrooms, I see the same scene as I did in the great hall — everything is quiet and still.

I knock on Mrs Harris’s door. There’s no answer. So I enter.

Mrs Harris is on her phone when I walk in, her mouth frozen mid-smile.

“Ma’am?”

No response.

I plonk down in the chair opposite her. There’s a cordless phone on her desk. I pick it up, dial my mother’s work number.

The line is dead.

I look around the office, one hand on my hip, the other on my forehead.

Out of options, I gingerly remove the cell phone from Mrs Harris’s hand and listen for noise on the other end. It’s silent, but the screen shows that she’s on a call with Dr Abrahams. The duration of the call has frozen at two minutes and six seconds.

A sick feeling gnaws at my insides. I bound down the corridor, then exit through the side gate.

No one’s ever outside at this time, so the silence in the courtyard is expected. But when I make it onto the field and notice the cars and the people crossing the main road are also frozen, I start panicking.

And there’s something else, too. Something is wrong but I can’t place my finger on it.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what lunch breaks with my friends on the field felt like, with the gentle breeze ruffling our skirts and the birds cooing in the overhead branches.

That’s it!

I spin around, searching for the familiar doves that are often seen perched on the fences, in the trees, or sitting in the headmistress’s garden further afield. I count seven. When I approach the one sitting on the back of a bench, it does not scatter. Even when I wave my hands, there’s no reaction.

I glance up into the canopy of branches above my head. I might as well be staring at a photograph for how still they are. The wind has frozen, too.

It hits me slowly: I am all alone in the world. No friends. No birds. Not even a breeze to keep me company.

Then I drop to my knees on the dew-drenched grass, and I cry.

Tell us: Would you be scared or excited if you were in Khanya’s shoes and why?