Iga is staying in the school library after lessons when a thunderstorm hits. The fluorescent lights purr over the tables like silent, weary cats. For a year now, she has understood this sound, even though no one else can. The current speaks to her in short, crackling sentences, like a telegram. Today it sounds different, faster, as if someone is in a hurry. The librarian turns off the lights, but one by the window refuses to go out. "Hello, Igo. Someone's lost on the net" - the lamp crackles. Iga approaches cautiously and touches the lampshade with one finger. The air tastes of metal and warmth pulses inside. The lamp trembles and whispers: "Do you hear? There's a strange voice coursing through the wires." The girl holds her breath and listens very carefully, completely still. Her phone vibrates and shows flashing dots on a map. The dots form a line leading to the roof of the gymnasium. "Hurry," the fluorescent phone rings, "before the storm swallows it up." Iga runs down the corridor, the lights drawing arrows with a flicker. The door to the roof is closed, but the lock has a red light. "Hey, little magnet," - says Iga to the control - "can you help me?" She touches the metal handle and feels the electricity tremble in her fingers. The light flashes twice and the lock gives way with a click. On the roof, the wind rolls puddles into silver spirals. A cloud hangs over the school like a great chalice, full of blue sparks. One streak of lightning does not fall, but hangs and calls her name in a whisper. The streak bends towards her hand, as if waiting to be touched. "One more step, Igo," says a voice from the cables, and the air tightens like a string.