Theknockatmydoor is soft, almost apologetic. I’m on my bed, phone clutched in one hand, thumb hovering over a blank message to Julian. My hair is still damp from the shower, leaving a crescent of moisture on the pillow. I blink up at the water-stained ceiling, count to five, then get up and move to the door.
I want it to be him. I want him to knock like that, to stand in the hall with his jaw clenched and his eyes daring me to let him in. I imagine his voice: soft and cruel, telling me to open up, to stop hiding, to let him see what he’s done to me.
I open the door.
It’s not Julian. Of course it isn’t.
I would never be so fucking lucky.
A man stands in the corridor, not much older than I am, wearing the black uniform of campus security. He has a badge clipped to his chest, his hands folded tight at his belt, and a square of white paper in one palm.
“Miss Marcus,” he says.
The name sits on my tongue like poison. “Yes?”
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze skims over my head. “You’re needed at the gymnasium. Now, please.”
I don’t move. “Why?”
“Medical,” he says. “I’m to escort you.”
He says it with the slow, cautious patience of someone who expects me to run.
For a second, I consider it. I could dart back into my room, slam the lock, wedge my chair under the knob. I could refuse. What would they do? Drag me out kicking, screaming? Or just wait for me to starve? Either is possible.
But I don’t move. I just stare at him, trying to guess whether this is a test or a threat.
He waits. There’s a tick in his jaw, the only hint of emotion in his bland face.
I nod. “Let me get my shoes.”
I slip into my loafers and grab the first jacket I see. It’s too thin for the weather, but I put it on anyway. I tuck my phone into the pocket and follow him out, pulling the door shut behind me. It latches with a click that sounds too final.
We walk in silence. The corridor is empty, echoes of our steps bouncing off the high plaster ceiling. He keeps a careful distance, exactly two paces ahead of me, never looking back. Every door we pass is closed. I wonder how many girls are hiding inside, listening for the sound of boots in the hall.
Outside, the world is half alive. Spring is supposed to be a time for flowers and rebirth, but not here. It is perpetually gloom and doom. Wind knifes through my jacket, leaving me numb. The walk to the gym takes less than two minutes, but I’m a bundle of nerves by the time we reach the glass double doors.
He pulls one open for me, and the sudden wash of heat and sweat stings my eyes.
The gym has always been my least favorite building on campus. I’m not an athletic person by nature, so I avoid this space at all costs. But today the space is worse than usual. Today, the court has been transformed into a kind of medical theater.
Three folding screens are set up at the far end, blocking off the last ten yards of court. Behind them, I see the corner of a table—stainless steel legs, white sheet, a mound of something blue and disposable at one end. I see the glint of a metal instrument, then the shape of a woman in pale blue scrubs. She’s hunched over a tray, moving instruments in neat, precise rows. She wears a mask over her mouth and a cap over her hair.
The smell of antiseptic is overwhelming, sharp enough to coat the inside of my nose.
A folding chair sits just outside the screen. My escort points to it, and I lower myself onto the seat. My knees want to bounce, but I clamp them together and fold my hands in my lap.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” he says. Then he turns and walks away, steps echoing across the empty gym.
I stare at my shoes.
Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. The lights flicker overhead, the buzz intensifies, and my mind wanders to places I can’t control.
I think about the contracts on my fathers desk. I think about the conversation in the office, the way Julian said “You’re not afraid of me.” I think about what would happen if I ran right now, out the fire exit, across the frozen quad, into the woods at the edge of campus. I think about how far I could get before someone caught me, and whether I would be punished, or just erased.
A woman appears from behind the screen. She’s older than I thought, maybe forty, with hair so blond it looks white against her skin. She doesn’t introduce herself. She just glances at the clipboard in her hand, then at me.
“Amara Marcus.”
