I'd heard whispers before—those were background noise. Static. Easy to tune out.
These were different.
"—the one Twilson called out—"
"—orphan, apparently—"
"—knows Rae Whitaker, can you believe—"
I kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. The posture Gregor had insisted on since I was old enough to stand:Don't let them see you flinch.
Ivy fell into step beside me, tray in hand. "So. You're famous now."
"Lucky me."
"On the bright side, at least they're not talking about what you wore to the welcome mixer."
"I didn't go to the welcome mixer."
"Exactly. Very mysterious. Very aloof." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "Come on. Let's get food before the vultures circle."
We found a table near the windows—not hidden, but not central either. Ivy launched into a story, and I let her voice wash over me while I picked at my salad.
The whispers didn't stop. They just got quieter. More careful.
I could feel eyes on me from across the room. Students I didn't know, cataloging information they'd gathered from hallway gossip and Twilson's public performance. Building a profile. Deciding who I was before I had a chance to show them.
Orphan. Connected. Problem.
The words formed a shape I recognized. A story being told without my permission.
Wilderness First Aid was worse.
Mr. Boone had us partnered up for practical drills—splinting, wound packing, emergency carries. I'd been paired with a guy named Derek, broad-shouldered and confident in the way that usually meant he'd never had to work for anything.
"Okay," Boone announced, circling the room with his usual enthusiasm. "Scenario: your partner has fallen through ice and is showing signs of moderate hypothermia. Walk me through your response. Go."
I knelt beside Derek, already running through the protocol. "First priority is getting them out of wet clothing without causing further heat loss. You want to cut the clothes away rather than pulling them over—"
"Hang on." Derek held up a hand. "You know all this stuff already?"
"I grew up in a cold climate."
"Right." He leaned back, something shifting in his expression. "Or maybe you're just friends with the professor."
The words landed like a slap.
I went still. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying." Derek shrugged, casual, like he hadn't just accused me of cheating. "Word is you've got connections. Twilson had to step in because you were getting special treatment. Maybe Boone's in on it too."
Heat climbed up my throat. My hands were shaking—not from cold, from anger. The kind that started in your chest and spread outward, looking for somewhere to go.
"I don't know Mr. Boone," I said. My voice came out flat. Controlled. "I've never spoken to him outside of class and the hike. And if you think knowing how to treat hypothermia requires insider connections, maybe you should pay more attention to the lectures."
Derek's eyes narrowed. "Hey, I'm just asking questions—"
"No. You're repeating gossip and being an ass." I stood up, grabbing my supplies. "Find another partner. I'm done."
