I turn my bike down the long, manicured driveway of the club and rev my engine loudly, and just obnoxiously enough to send one last message to the rich fuckers behind me.
As I turn onto the highway, I decide I’ll worry about next steps later.
Because there’s a different kind of chase calling me now… and it starts at UNB.
SEVEN
“In classical mechanics,this would be impossible,” I say, gesturing toward the diagram projected behind me of a simple graph with a tall, rectangular barrier rising from a flat line with a faint wave pulsing on one side, unable to break through.“If a particle encounters a barrier it doesn’t have enough energy to overcome, it reflects back. Simple as that.”
My gaze sweeps across the lecture hall, over the sea of furrowed brows and blank stares. A low exhale escapes me, and I resist the urge to rub my hand over my face in frustration.
I don’t know how to make this any fucking clearer.
“In quantum mechanics,” I add dryly, “everything’s a suggestion.”
A few students blink like they’re unsure whether I’m being sarcastic, while others look down as if they might find answers in their notes. And one hand goes up slowly, and hesitantly.
I point at him, grabbing my travel mug as I lean back against the table at the front of the room, and take a long drink. The warm, bitter liquid slides down my throat, and I wince slightly at the taste of stale coffee laced with cheap rum. It scrapes through me like sandpaper, leaving a trail of heat in its wake that’s familiar, unpleasant, and necessary. But it also brings a flicker ofsensation that reminds me I still exist. Like I might actually be here, in this room, instead of floating six feet above it.
“If the particle doesn’t have enough energy to cross the barrier,” the student asks, eyeing the projected diagram, “how does it tunnel through?”
I lower the mug and let it settle on the table with a dull clunk. “Magic,” I say flatly.
Some eyes widen, and others share glances with each other.
For fuck’s sake.
“It’s not magic,” I mutter, and cross my arms with a sigh. “It’s probability. The particle isn’t just a particle; it behaves like a wave. And that wave function extends beyond the barrier. So there’s always a small, nonzero chance it shows up on the other side. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if the classical rules say it can’t.”
I pause for a moment as the confused expressions turn thoughtful.
“Sometimes, it just… does,” I say with a shrug.
And ironically, with this answer, comprehension begins to spread. A few students nod, and fingers start tapping on keyboards.
I turn away from them to grab my mug and take another drink, letting my eyes close as the burn of alcohol flares through my chest, and familiar thoughts try to push their way in. The ones that remind me I shouldn’t be doing this… at least not here. IknowI shouldn’t be drinking while I’m teaching.
But I shut those thoughts out. Even though the guilt lingers.
Because lately, drinking has been the only thing that can cut through the static and anchor me just enough to feel the smallest thread of connection to a world that usually slides past me, like motion without momentum. Everything is moving, but I’m standing still.
I open my eyes and set the mug down, letting my hand rest over the lid like I’m waiting for it to do more, and for the heat to sink in.
It doesn’t. Not really. It presses into my skin in a way that feels distant and muted, and I release a sigh of disappointment. Although I’m not sure what else I expected.
Then, behind me, I hear the sound of the lecture hall door open and close.
Are you fucking kidding me…
Class is almost over, and one of these kids has the nerve to show up this late? What’s the fucking point?
They better be holding an apology bottle and an excuse I haven’t already heard a dozen times this semester.
I spin around to face the lecture hall again, ready to rip this kid a new one…
And stop.
At the top of the stairs, standing like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be…
