A class was set a piece of work to do properly, over time. Then a girl called Mia found out that loads of her classmates were planning to take a shortcut — copying answers from somewhere, or getting it done the quick, not-really-allowed way. "Everyone's doing it," they said. "The teacher won't even notice." Mia had done the work properly, the slow way, and it had been hard. Now she felt almost stupid for bothering — like she'd run a race the long way round while everyone else cut across the field. The shortcut was right there. She could still take it. And the line "everyone's doing it" made not taking it feel pointlessly noble, like she'd be the only fool playing fair. The work was hers. The choice — fair way or shortcut — still was too.