I nod, tipping my gaze up toward the sky as we walk. The sunlight’s gentler now, filtered through the late afternoon haze, casting everything in a soft, golden glow that makes the campus look almost peaceful.
“I hope so,” I say with a slight chuckle as we exit the bypass and cross the street toward our parking garage. “It’s our last year. I’m seriously praying it doesn’t go to hell.”
FOUR
RAELYNN
The sun hasn’t even draggeditself over the horizon by the time my alarm tears me out of sleep, the sharp opening riff of “Machinehead” by Bush shredding through the last scraps of whatever dream I was having. I jolt upright with a groan, fumbling blindly across the nightstand until my hand smacks against my phone and finally silences the noise. My eyes crack open just enough to squint at the glowing screen—5:15 a.m. The numbers blur for a second before my brain accepts them. Too early. Far too early.
Another groan slips out, this one louder, as I let the phone drop back onto the nightstand with a dull thud. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling as if it might take pity on me and reverse time. Mornings and I have never been on good terms, but mornings before sunrise? That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.
And today of all days, I have to be at the department by six thirty sharp. Sergeant Rodriguez, my internship supervisor, insisted I come in early for my first official day. She said she wanted to give me a full tour and ensure everything was in order—badge access, paperwork, the whole shebang. And, eventhough I’m just an intern, I still have to sit through roll call like everyone else, which means pretending to look alive in front of a room full of actual officers.
I’m already regretting not begging for the afternoon shift instead.
I linger in bed for another five minutes, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling and questioning every life decision that led me to this ungodly hour. Eventually, with a sigh, I peel back the comforter. Max lifts his head from the blanket nest at the foot of the bed, blinking at me with the kind of sleepy judgment only a dog can pull off. When I swing my legs over the edge and stretch, joints popping, Max hops off the bed and shakes himself awake, tail wagging halfheartedly.
My outfit is waiting on the dresser—a rare stroke of foresight courtesy of the slightly more responsible version of me from last night. I’d gone for what I consideredsemi-professional attire—emphasis on semi.
Leggings, a dark blue blouse, and my boots.
Leggings are the only bottoms I’ll tolerate. Jeans? Absolutely not. I can’t stand the stiff fabric, the pinch of the zipper, the way the waistband always feels like it’s plotting against me. Leggings, at least, give me comfort—even if I have to accept the cruel lack of pockets as the trade-off. The boots are practical, sturdy, and ready for whatever today decides to throw at me. What exactly that might be, I don’t know. But still. Better prepared than not.
On top of the blouse and leggings, I’d stacked a clean pair of panties, my favorite bra (though, truth be told, it probably needs to see the inside of the washing machine soon), and a pair of socks—mismatched, because that’s all I managed to grab from the drawer before collapsing into bed. Even now, I can’t summon the energy to fix it.
No one’s going to see them anyway, so who cares?
I scoop the pile into my arms and pad across the room to the door. The second it cracks open, Max darts past me, nails clicking against the floor as he heads down the hall toward the living room, tail now fully awake and wagging. He plants himself at the front door of the apartment, nose pressed against the wood, as if sheer willpower will get him outside faster.
I detour to the bathroom first, setting my clothes on the back of the toilet and flipping the shower handle. The pipes groan, then cough themselves awake, steam curling from the spray as it heats. With that going, I cross the hall into the living room. Tessa’s slippers sit by the door, and since she’s not awake to complain, I slide my feet into them.
Max is practically vibrating now. I grab his leash from the hook, the roll of bright blue poo bags clipped to it rattling faintly as I snap it onto his collar. His whole body wiggles, nails scrabbling against the laminate as he dances in place.
“Alright, alright,” I mumble, still half asleep, tugging the door open.
The air outside is already warm, thick with the stillness of the desert. The complex is quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists in the thin hours before dawn. Streetlamps cast hazy halos over the sidewalks, their light catching the trimmed bushes that border the paths and the low stucco buildings arranged in neat rows. The pool area is locked up, chairs stacked along the fence line, and the sound of the fountain near the leasing office carries faintly across the courtyard.
Max bounds ahead to the nearest patch of grass by the parking lot, nose glued to the ground, inhaling a story only he can read. I stifle a yawn, rubbing at my eyes as he circles, sniffs, and circles again.
From the far end of the lot, an engine turns over. I glance up as a car eases out of a parking space, its headlights sliding brieflyacross the rows before it slips onto the street. The quiet settles again, and I turn back to Max just as he tugs at the leash.
Finally, he squats and takes care of his business. I tug a bag free, the plastic crinkling loudly in the silence, and grimace as I clean up after him. The tied-off bag swings from my fingers as I carry it to the trash can near the walkway.
We linger a moment longer, Max lifting his nose to the breeze like he’s debating whether there’s more to investigate. “Nope,” I mutter, giving the leash a gentle tug. “Sorry, bud. Not today, Mommy’s got places to be.”
Back inside, I lock the door behind us and unclip his leash. Max trots straight to his water bowl, nails clicking on the floor, before lapping noisily. I rub at my face and head for the bathroom, dragging a hand down my face as I step back into the steam.
Time to make myself look alive.
Nervous energy hums just beneath my skin as I sit stiffly in the lobby of the Westside Division.
The front desk clerk, a stocky man named Thomas—with jet black hair slicked back with enough gel to survive anything thrown at it—greeted me with a warm, practiced smile the moment I stepped inside. After the standard bag check and a pass through the metal detector, I was waved through and told to take a seat.
He’d assured me that Rodriguez would be out shortly. She was finishing up a few last-minute administrative tasks before giving me the full rundown for the day.
That was fifteen minutes ago.
I arrived right at six thirty like I was told, but now the minutes are stretching thin, each one dragging a little heavier than the last. My leg bounces restlessly, the toe of my boot tapping a jittery rhythm against the tile, and my fingers drum against my bag like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.
