The dorm room is empty. I flop down on the bed and try to force my brain to think in a logical pattern, but it won’t obey, and I fall asleep with the image of Sonja’s mother guarding over me.
*
I wake at the pounding on my door. The sun is shining low into the windows, and my stomach growls. I’ve slept through dinner.
“Ethan, open up,” Memory shouts from the hallway. I yank open the door. “Where’s my brother’s stuff?”
“What the hell, Cherry?” I shuffle back to my bed, sit down. I rub my hands over my eyes, trying to shrug off the groggy feeling. My clothes stick to my skin, creased and sweaty.
“Where is Julian’s laptop bag?” she asks, then sees the leather satchel on the bed and starts rummaging through it.
“What are you looking for?”
“My sketchbook. He had it the other day after class and I need it.”
I take the bag from her, place his laptop and power cord on the mattress. Opening the side pockets, I toss several pens and pencils into a pile, along with a couple books she’s already pulled from the bag.
“I don’t see it.”
“It has to be here,” she snatches the leather strap and drags it toward her. Something on the bed catches her eye. “Wait. Hand me that.”
“What?” I ask, but she pushes past me and grabs one of the pens. Or not exactly a pen, I see as she holds it up. It’s wider and has a green wrapper around it. “What is that?”
“It’s an Epi-pen. That shouldn’t be here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When you use one of these you have to take it with you to the hospital. The paramedics would have insisted.” She opens the cap and says, “It wasn’t used. It’s still full.”
“Then maybe that’s it. Maybe he didn’t use his pen, and that’s why the reaction was so bad.”
“Dr. Anders said he used his pen. So did Julian, it was his first text from the hospital.” She fumbles with her phone and shows me the screen: I’m alive. Epinephrine is great stuff. The food here is not. “I’ve always made sure he had that pen with him and I have an extra in my bag. Why do you think I carry it everywhere I go?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
*
I scramble to find my shoes. Memory’s ahead of me, walking fast with her phone to her ear. The main dormitory door slams as I dodge a crowd of science nerds hurrying to their Evening Activity. When I catch up to her, she’s halfway to the main administration office.
“Ugh! Why won’t anyone answer the phone?”
“Who?” I ask, grabbing her hand, slowing her down.
“My parents. Julian. Where are they?”
“Well, Julian is in the hospital and your parents are on some kind of camping trip, right?”
She rolls her eyes at me, and a tear spills over, stained black with makeup.
“Where are you going, anyway?” I ask her. “Planning on storming the faculty offices at 8:00 in the evening?”
She stops, finally. “I need answers. Something isn’t right.”
“That may be, but we need to talk to Julian first. One thing at a time. And we can’t just go in making accusations without evidence, okay?” I cup her stubborn jaw with my palm, and she closes her eyes, leans into my hand. “If Anders is really plagiarizing academic papers, he’s more trouble than we can handle on our own.”
A bird chirps at us, a melodic tweet in the now empty quad. I itch for my camera, to have this second forever, her all soft and needing me, but then I hate it, wanting her strong and fierce again. I rub my thumb under her eyes, wipe away the tears.