Page 13

Stick to the plan, Beatrix.

Medicine must have been much easier when doctors could open a body, point at whatever they found and name it after themselves. Half of anatomy is just some dead man’s surname.

I was born three hundred years too late.

There could have been a Walker fold. A Walker duct. Tiny Walker canals inside everyone’s ears.

I shiver and get up to close the window.

When I open my closet for a sweatshirt, my attention catches—as it always does—on the acoustic Gibson tucked behind my clothes.

It’s still inside the soft case.

I haven’t opened it in years. It’s too painful.

I keep telling myself I will one day, in the same vague way people promise they’ll finish a book they abandoned halfway through. I pull on my favorite UMS sweatshirt instead, the burgundy one I bought two sizes too big freshman year, and head downstairs for hot lemon water.

“Hey,” Sydney calls from the living room.

“Hey yourself.”

I’m not surprised she’s awake. In the three months we’ve lived together, I’ve learned Sydney is either awake at night or seriously ill. To be fair, some of it is legitimate—her Observational Astronomy course runs night labs, so nobody in this house questions a three a.m. Sydney anymore.

“How’s studying?”

“Wonderful. I’ve reached the stage where the word heart looks misspelled.”

“Productive.”

“Extremely.”

She’s stretched across the couch with her phone six inches from her face.

“I’ve been swiping on that new dating app,” she says. “Trying to find someone to invite over.”

“Any luck?”

She sighs theatrically.

“Yes, but not with anyone I actually want. Where have all the attractive men gone? Mountain Springs used to be full of them. This house used to be full of them.”

I stop halfway toward the kitchen.

“What does that mean?”

“Well.” Her expression becomes instantly guilty. “I may have done a little research into Mr. Sexy Spencer.”

“Sydney, that’s sort of creepy.”

“Not on his account. Technically. His wife’s Instagram is public,” she says defensively. “Tara posted a ton when they were at UMS. And look what I found.”

She thrusts the phone into my hand.

Curiosity defeats principle almost immediately.

“Oh. Wow.”

Four college-age guys outside this house. Our landlord—even though I’ve only seen him through Sydney’s detailed descriptions—is instantly recognizable on the far left, all in black, with a hint of a smile. The other three look like they should be modeling expensive underwear. Sharp jaws, boyish grins, all broad and muscular.