It takes Z until the dinner bell rings to get all his stupid letters passed out.

Luckily — he thinks? — that means he's one of the first freshmen in line. He's ravenous, after a couple days of careful light eating and then the fast to fit an extra few ounces into his bag. He piles as much onto his plate as he can fit, and then heads out into the room to try to secure a place at a table.

He thinks he remembers anything near a vent being a bad call, but there are already upperclassmen staking out the best tables, and he doubts they're going to tolerate some scrawny, scarred-up freshman dropping his tray at their table. So he starts scouting around the perimeter of the room for a party to crash that's slightly less out of his league.