Chapter 1: The California Roll

Three hundred and twenty. The number of miles separating heaven and hell. I’d burned the route into memory: one side a dry wasteland, the other a lush paradise, with almost nothing in between. Counting cacti and rest-stop signs kept me grounded.

Thirteen. That’s how many months had passed since high school graduation and landing a full scholarship—before I ghosted everyone and everything that mattered. I vanished. No emails. No calls. No texts. Not even a beachy Instagram post.

Finally, civilization emerged, breaking the monotony with sidewalks and street signs. The urban planning department had labeled everything meticulously—unlike the endless desert—as if someone had gone wild with a giant label maker.

Enough time had passed to erase the street names from my memory. Funny how the mind does that when you want it to—smearing memories like mascara after a breakup text.

The GPS blared, “1320 Shelton Street, you have arrived at your destination.”

I accidentally rolled through a stop sign—a California roll, and not the sushi kind—before parking outside the apartment building and letting Herbie, my vintage VW Bug, sputter to silence.

 Grabbing my suitcase, I glanced up at a flock of gulls. One bird veered off course, and I felt a strange kinship. The past year in Indonesia had been a series of migrations for me, too. Each place I visited was an attempt to piece together my mother’s past—but all I’d found were more questions.

My sandals brushed freshly mowed grass. Pollen kicked up, tickling my nose. An allergy nightmare. I walked up to the concrete landing. No security deposit required—probably because someone moved out in a hurry. Their loss, my gain. That was the theme of my teenage years.

I rang the doorbell. Footsteps approached.
“One sec,” a woman’s voice called out. Must be Eleanor Lee.

After finding this listing last week, I’d Googled my new roommates. I wasn’t one for surprises. 

The door swung open, revealing a petite girl with thick glasses and a messy ponytail.

Eeeeh! Eeeeh! A loud, fire-alarm-like beeping blared as soon as the door opened.

‘A coding prodigy,’ as listed by her online presence, and without makeup, she looked ten years younger—like an undercover middle-school narc.

“Sorry!” She fumbled with the keypad. “It’s a little temperamental.”  

“Eleanor!” A tall, well-groomed guy entered, just shy of giving her the stink-eye. Gabriel Oliveira. His meticulously plucked eyebrows framed the public policy student’s serious face. 

Following vampire etiquette, I waited for them to invite me in.

“I’ve got it, okay?” Eleanor silenced the alarm. “Gertrude’s a little moody, needs a wiring tweak.”

“We should’ve gone with a standard alarm,” Gabriel said, tilting his head at her. “You didn’t have to build one from scratch on your bedroom floor.”

She rolled her eyes. “You handle the kitchen; I handle the tech.”

Gabriel extended a perfectly manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prin De Sangue. I’m Gabriel, and this is Eleanor. “Excuse our bickering—friends say we argue like an old married couple.”  

Eleanor jumped in, “But we’re definitely not married. His boyfriend wouldn’t go for that.” She wrinkled her nose.

“My sous-vide chicken is finished,” Gabriel said. “Please join us.”

Definitely not. I’ll pass on the Salmonella.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna get settled.” I headed to my room and closed the door. The less they knew about me, the better.

Seventy-three. That’s how many seconds it took for the search results to flood my screen. I’d waited until after I’d booked my ticket to dive into the blogs. If not for the scholarship, I might have backed out of returning.

My thumb froze as I swiped the screen, as if to protest my online deep-dive:

—-----------------

Coronado Prep Unofficial Blog Post (13 months ago): #VanishedValedictorian

Coronado Prep senior, Prin De Sangue, went missing hours before her valedictorian speech, causing pepper-spray sales to triple at local convenience stores. Four scribbled messages found on Post-it notes may provide clues:

Post-it: “I’m grateful for my friendship with Parker S.”

Post-it: “My actions have not caused someone’s death.”

Post-it: “Vibing confidence and composure.”

Post-it: “My dream schools in Boston rejected me.”

COMMENTS:

@AmazingAce33: “No sign of her for 2 days... hope she’s not at the bottom of the Pacific.”

@KarenLuv44: “Joined a search group. Won’t stop—even if the police have.”

@CSZ331: “She’s ALIVE. Just saw the police update.”

@1MeanMomma: “What a lunatic. Had us all panicked, and she ran off to Bali.”

@blingqueen77: “That psycho better never show her face again.”

—-----------------

The herbs packed away in my suitcase carried the fragrant aroma of Bali with them—making me miss it already.
I set my phone down, my stomach twisted.

It started with my mother’s drowning.
Or maybe it started with Layla’s car accident—my best friend’s sister.
But the real breaking point came hours before graduation, when I learned the truth about my mother.

Why had I come back?

For the scholarship?
To fulfill my grandmother’s dream?
Maybe.

But deep down, I knew part of me had come back to break the trail of death that seemed to follow me—Layla, my mom. 
And I needed answers about my mother—
why she left,
why she died,
and whether coming back would bring me closer to her... or closer to the darkness we both carried.

Digging through the school archives might be the only way to uncover who she really was—before she disappeared.

Nine months. That’s how long the first year of college lasts.

I’d be shocked if I made it through unscathed.

***

Chapter 2: Probation

Thud. Thunk. Rubber against linoleum. It was the grand entrance I never wanted to make. My double-soled platform boots echoed down the long corridor of the Pre-med administration building, turning heads as curious students rubbernecked toward the commotion. More than a year had passed since I last stepped into this building, back when I was a wide-eyed high school student.

My eyes landed on the jeweled bezels of a watch I could never have afforded—a gift from someone I would never see again.

Ten minutes until my meeting with the Dean. I squinted up at the portrait of Abraham Ozler—the so-called Founding Father of Medicine—and noted the bare hands clutching a scalpel. So much for hygiene. Those gloveless fingers probably spread more bacterial infections than they prevented.

At the Dean’s office, I checked in with his assistant, a blonde with striking cherry-red nails that matched her lipstick. Her pilates-sculpted figure swayed in a tight pencil skirt as she greeted me. She was one of those “Gen In-Betweeners”—not quite Gen Z, but with enough face collagen to look younger than a millennial. 

“Dr. Metsler’s ready for you.” 

I entered the office and a solidly built man in his sixties, sporting a loosely buttoned jacket and graying sideburns, greeted me. He looked like the Indiana Jones of Pritzker Pre-Med, minus the whip and fedora—or maybe the whip was in his tongue? I shifted my weight slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Prin De Sangue.” He extended his hand. “Dean Aiden Metsler. Pleasure to meet you.” Pressured speech. Tie slightly askew. He wasn’t an academic professor moonlighting as a treasure hunter—he was a prototypical surgeon serving as my pre-med advisor. Fantastic.

Before I could speak, he continued, “Valedictorian at Coronado Prep. Ozler Scholar. Impressive.” His hands brushed up against a pile of papers. “I’m still working on my speech for the white coat ceremony tomorrow. It’s being held at the Fitzgerald winery. Ever been?”

“No, sir,” I answered. The Ozlers, a legacy donor family, owned the winery. So cliché. “Their Chablis costs more than what I make in a month.”

He let out a practiced laugh—too polished. “I remember scraping by in college. Speaking of finances, I noticed your scholarship funds don’t cover your entire tuition. You've got a loan for that?”

“Yeah, it’s covered. I’m working at a bistro downtown,” I replied casually. No need to mention the extra mouth I was feeding—a homeless one. That detail wasn’t his business. “We’re actually catering the reception tomorrow.”

He cleared his throat—a subtle signal that my blue-collar side hustle didn’t interest him in the slightest. “Your scholarship arrangement is... unusual. Most students don’t defer funds for a year.” 

Figures. No one had informed him about my secret agreement with the college.  

“I’m not privy to all the details,” he continued, “but others in administration said your disappearance last year caused quite a stir. Frankly, you’re lucky we didn’t reassign your seat last fall.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.

“Now, you’ll need to be the top ranked student in your class again—otherwise, we’ll have to revoke your scholarship. Consider this a probationary period. And it won’t be easy; this year, we’ve admitted the largest cohort of pre-meds from my alma mater in Boston.”

A lump formed in my throat. Maintaining a perfect GPA during high school had nearly destroyed me. And now my entire future depended on it.

I extended my hand with a toothy car salesman grin. “I’m excited for the challenge.” 

My abdomen tossed its contents like a salad. This wasn’t high school. This was Pritzker. The med school pipeline. The Hunger Games with highlighters and dissection equipment.

And I was already behind.

Let the games begin.

***

I walked out of his office, clutching my waist. For future check-ins, I’d remember to show up with an empty stomach.

My hands slipped on Herbie’s steering wheel, slick with sweat. At Pritzker, you did whatever it took to become the “Pritzker Pick”—the top-ranked student with first dibs on the best med schools. People skipped laundry, meals, even bathroom breaks to squeeze in more study time.

But I knew the secret sauce—mastering the cocktail of Adderall, Prozac, and Ambien.

Last year, I’d been there—dry-swallowing pharmaceutical sunshine like a human Pez dispenser.

Would I eventually spiral into depression like my mother did at Pritzker? Or lose my marbles like my aunt?

My shoes scuffed the pavement as I approached the apartment. The lights were off. Good. 

“You are the owner of all your actions.” Doya’s words echoed in my mind. I pictured myself in the Indonesian monastery’s garden, digging into the soil, as if connected to both nothing and everything. “Find out how your mother lived—break your curse with death.” 

I tossed my bag onto the bed and rushed into the kitchen. On top of the cupboard sat my stash—ziplock bags carefully labeled in English and Bahasa Indonesian. I pulled a few down, measured out small quantities, and turned on the stove.

***

It was almost midnight, and the kitchen smelled like a chocolate shop. As I was putting away the pralines I’d made, Eleanor walked in.

Her face lit up as the sweet aroma hit her. “Did I die and end up in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”

“Just making some chocolates,” I said curtly, fingers tightening around the mixing spoon.

The conversation with the dean about putting me on probation kept replaying in my mind—on a constant, exhausting loop.

“At midnight?” Her eyebrows rose.  

I didn’t owe her an explanation, but I gave one anyway. “Making chocolate helps me de-stress.”

She tilted her head. “Aren’t pre-med students always stressed?”

Point taken. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“I could use a pick-me-up after a ten-hour coding marathon,” she said, reaching for a chocolate.

I nudged her hand away. “You can’t have these… I mean, you probably wouldn’t like them.” I quickly sealed the batch in a small Tupperware. I hadn’t labeled this batch—rookie mistake. Otherwise, someone like Eleanor—already high on life—might end up high on my special recipe too. 

These weren’t ordinary chocolates—they were infused with a secret blend of monastery herbs that were more mystical than medicinal. Luckily, they  didn’t get flagged by the unibrow customs agent who rifled through my bag last week.

According to Doya, the wise woman from the Indonesian monastery, the herbs possessed remarkable properties—one of which, she claimed, was the ability to transcend time. A herbal time machine? Absurd. And yet, I couldn’t explain how I remembered conversations from years ago in perfect detail—or how I dreamt things that actually happened months later—after one of those chocolate nights.

“They’re bitter... low in sugar for my Keto diet.”

“I’m not a fan of healthy junk food, so… anyways, good night,” she said as I made a beeline for my room.

I thought back to those late-night chocolate batches in high school—Zara, Parker, and I huddled around the shared kitchen, laughing over melted chips and oddly-shaped chocolates.

But now, they were gone. Off to college. Out of state. Out of reach.

Were they still angry?

Did they think I was dead?

Or worse…

Did they simply not care?

All I knew was, I wasn’t here to make new friends.

This wasn’t an episode of Friends.

It was a classic urban transaction: coexist, compartmentalize, survive.

***

Chapter 3: Flashback: The Night Before High School Graduation

I let my homemade chocolate melt on my tongue before falling asleep that night. The tang of the mind-altering herbs lingered, blending with the sweetness. Something to settle me after my meeting with the dean—grandmaster for my new survival competition. As the familiar stupor set in, time and place began to blur. I felt myself drifting—until suddenly, I was there again: one year earlier, the night before graduation.

One Year Earlier

Coronado Prep

My neck craned sideways—an ergonomic nightmare.

With only a few hours left before my valedictorian speech, my fingers flew across the laptop keyboard in a frenzy. Genius at work, or madman? Probably both.

Neon Post-its were plastered on the walls and scattered across my bed, each one holding a confession I wasn’t ready to say out loud. “My actions have not caused someone’s death.” A lie. I’d written it in bold, sharp letters and stuck it in the back of my high school yearbook, hoping that staring at the words long enough might somehow make them true.

I was still gazing at the Post-it when my phone buzzed across the bed. It was Parker.

PARKER: "Be there in 15. Can’t wait for the Prin Masterpiece. I’m sure it’s a knockout, you 1-percenter :)"

He never missed a chance to tease me about being in the top one percent of our class, especially since I was also the youngest—eighteen months to be exact—thanks to Grandmother’s little lie on my kindergarten registration. But his playful jab couldn’t stop my racing thoughts. I typed back, face hovering over the screen.

ME: "Are you calling me a nerdy overachiever?"

PARKER: "Nah. Not nerdy. Adorable."

Adorable like a puppy, or like your dream girl? I stared at the text stream. After midnight, it was hard to tell if this was flirty banter or just… banter.

ME: "Whatever. Aren’t you a 2-percenter?"

PARKER: "More like 1.5 percent, but who’s counting?"

ME: "The only difference between you and me is you’re still in denial. BTW, don’t forget the espresso jelly beans—I need all the caffeine I can get."

I glanced at the blue Post-it stuck to my laptop: “Vibing confidence and composure.” Another lie. My mantra had been to fake it until...well, I ran out of energy to keep faking it. I wasn’t composed. I wasn’t confident. But somehow, Parker made me feel like I was.

The door swung open, and Zara—my best friend besides Parker—breezed in, her silk robe flowing behind her. She was always like that—elegant, effortless. The opposite of me. 

Tonight, though, she looked concerned as she navigated through the sea of papers to reach my bed.

“Prin! When you texted SOS, I didn’t think it was this bad.”

I shrugged, flipping through the pages of my speech without really seeing the words. “Only nine hours until game time.” If only I were a clutch player.

Zara perched on the bed’s edge, eyeing the mess of papers everywhere. “The speech is excellent, but something’s off.”  Her face puckered, like she was squeezing her thoughts the way one presses a lemon to flavor a French tart.

“Just nervous.” An acidic taste hit my tongue when visions of my classmates’ faces staring back at me from the audience surfaced. Doritos. I should’ve skipped that late-night snack instead of indulging my artificial cheese addiction.

My tension spiked as I gazed at the yellow Post-it stuck in my yearbook: “My actions have not caused someone’s death.” Zara had thrown herself into editing our high school yearbook, her staff photo tucked away on the back page, hidden beneath layers of French tulle, as if camouflaging her grief. Would Zara forgive me if she knew I was the reason her sister died—as if I’d handed her the poisoned apple myself?

Outside, the sound of footsteps hitting the pavement drifted in through my open bedroom window, and I glanced outside. Parker.

Zara arched an eyebrow. “So... what’s going on with you two? Have you finally told him you’re madly in love with him?”

I tossed a pillow at her. “Zara, seriously. We’re just friends.” It was more a statement to convince myself than her.

She caught the pillow easily, smirking. “Please. You two are like the world’s slowest romance novel. Everyone’s waiting for the big confession.”

Before I could argue, Parker knocked on the door and stepped in, wearing his usual faded crimson Harvard T-shirt, jeans, and that calm smile that made everything feel both lighter—and heavier. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up with something.” Something or someone?

“Thanks,” I mumbled, smiling as I took the bag of jellybeans. “What’s the excuse this time? Another chem emergency with pheromone girl?”  I teased, thinking of the countless Coronado Prep girls who swooned over him—flirty birds of prey fluttering their eyelash extensions like Morse code for what Zara called a BILF—Boy I’d Like To…

Parker grinned. “What can I say? It’s hard being this irresistible.” He leaned against the desk, his posture as casual as ever, like a billboard model pretending he wasn’t posing. But I couldn’t shake the thoughts swirling in my mind. There was so much I couldn’t say. 

Post-it Lie: “I’m grateful for my friendship with Parker S.” My lies kept us firmly in the friend zone. That’s all we could ever be. 

“Here,” he said, handing me the espresso jelly beans.

I eyed them suspiciously. “These look different than my usual ones. Please don’t tell me they're sugar-free and vegan?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, most jelly beans, like these, contain animal by-products. And I made sure they’re loaded with sugar, just how you like them.”

I tore open the bag, grinning. “Thanks. I know your room is a processed-food-free zone. All junk food needs an invitation.” I popped a jelly bean into my mouth and asked, “So… who’s going to supply me when you’re off in Boston?”

He smiled, but there was tension behind it. “You’ll find another sucker. Besides, whose textbooks am I supposed to steal when I forget mine?”

I laughed, remembering the first time we met in the library, after my grades tanked from the failed experiment of studying in the Coronado Prep girl’s dorm. He’d found me face-planted in my biology book, the page still damp from two a.m. drool. A meet-cute nightmare. “That was a one-time thing. And I’m pretty sure you still owe me.”

He shook his head, laughing easily, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “I paid you back, remember? That fine dining experience–an E. coli-infested burger from the dining hall.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling a small wave of relief in the banter. “Ah yes, the pinnacle of culinary excellence.” Had he not been so handsome, my compulsive germ-thoughts would’ve won.

He laughed, and I felt a buzz of energy. Darn it. As if my nerves weren’t already raw.

“Let’s hear it,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Give it to me.”

“She’d love to do exactly that, BILF,” Zara grinned, while I tried to hide my embarrassment.

Parker’s face twisted in confusion, as if he’d only caught half of what Zara said. “Huh?”

“Never mind, Zara. Let me start my speech.” I launched into my rehearsed monologue about humble beginnings and earning the school’s merit scholarship. The Coronado Prep poster child. I had to be—for my grandmother.  

Neither she nor my mom would be in the audience.

I glanced at the wristwatch Parker gave me. Three-thirty-five a.m. I shoved the speech into a binder, hiding the pastel Post-it: My dream school in Boston rejected me.

I hadn’t told them. Not Parker, not Zara. There was too much I hadn’t told them.

Parker wrapped his arm around my waist. “Prin gets a proper meal tomorrow night if she can slip the words ‘backdoor’ and ‘foreplay’ into her last paragraph.” Bubbly laughter welled up inside me. How did he always know what to say? 

When Parker finally left that night, his smile lingering in the doorway, I had a feeling it would be the last time he saw me—at least as the person he thought I was. 

Early the next morning, I reached into the depths of my closet to retrieve my late grandmother’s graduation gift. She had made me promise—her frail figure adorned with IV tubes that fanned out like peacock feathers—to wait until after graduation to open it. With a few hours left before my speech, I figured it was close enough.

As I unwrapped the gift, I was startled to discover a letter she had secretly tucked inside. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the paper and began to read her words, devouring them at light speed:

My Dearest Princess,

If you are reading this letter, my time on this earth has ended, and my spirit has moved on to the heavens...

Your mother would be so proud to see you following in her footsteps. If only you could have known her. I shielded you from certain truths I didn’t have the courage to share. Your mother was brilliant, but she was also sensitive. Weeks after your birth, she sank into a silence I couldn’t break. She drowned herself in Bali. I never had the heart to tell you the truth...

Acid rose up my wind-pipe. I couldn’t digest the words.

And for a moment, I wanted to burn the letter—to pretend it had never existed.

Grandma had always told me my mother died in a car accident. That was a lie. She’d drowned herself—because of my birth. I was responsible for another death...again. Zara’s sister Layla. My mother. Who would be next? Parker? My chest tightened, barely letting in any air. I was drowning, pulled down by the weight of it all to the ocean floor.

Grandma had curated my life like a game of Jenga, stacking each piece on teenage angst and the need for approval. And now, with this truth, she had yanked out the foundation. The storybook version of my mother she’d created was all built on lies. How did I not see it? I was the Queen—no, the Princess—of fabrications.

But why now? Why wait until she was six feet under? For the best reason of all: it’s hard to hate a dead person.

It took me less than thirty minutes to pack my bags and disappear. Gone, just like that. 

Running away? No—I was getting out before anyone else died.

***

Chapter 4: Not So White Coat Ceremony

We invite incoming medical students and their families as we celebrate our White Coat Ceremony for the Pritzker College of Medicine.  

Keynote Speaker : Aiden Metsler, M.D., Dean of the Pritzker University School of Medicine, Endowed Professor, Pritzker University Health Care System

Friday, August 18 at 2 p.m at the Fitzgerald Winery

I plucked the trampled invitation from the grass, eyeing the flowery font. I was here at the winery to serve hors d’oeuvres, not collect trash, but my OCD kicked in.

"Michael Anderson." Another name rang out over the speaker system as I weaved through the crowd, balancing a tray. I felt like the food I was carrying—a mini caprese skewer slow-cooking in the relentless sun.

I watched Michael’s football physique stomp onto the stage’s wooden planks—a tall, broad-shouldered lineman charging into a tackle as he accepted the gleaming ivory jacket from Dean Metsler.

Someday, that’ll be me.

But what will I have to sacrifice to make it onto that stage? Sleep? Keg stands? FOMO? My sanity?

For a day that marked the beginning of future sacrifice, it was undeniably beautiful. The sun peeked through the clouds, and the air carried the faint, sweet aroma of dried grapes–a novelty to someone raised just outside Las Vegas. I took in the picturesque villa nestled in the greenery; the breeze tugging at summer dresses and suit jackets. 

On my third lap through the crowd with a half-empty tray, I discreetly slipped a shrimp skewer into my apron pocket. Gross, I know. But it was one of the few appetizers that would still resemble actual food by the time I ate it for dinner. 

“Prin, is that you?”

My head snapped around at the mention of my name. A petite blonde beamed at me, her bright pink lips stretching into a familiar grin. She wore a designer floral-print maxi dress that blended so perfectly with the lush backdrop, she practically disappeared into it—like a chameleon effortlessly adapting to its chosen environment.

“It’s me, Madison.”

It took me a moment to recognize my former dorm mate from Coronado Prep. During my senior year of high school, I had tutored Madison—a wide-eyed junior from the first floor of our girls’ boarding house, trailing behind Zara and me like Paris Hilton’s chihuahua. I’d always found it endearing. Zara, on the other hand, had been one eye-roll away from losing her mind.

“Hi, Madison. Good to see you. It’s been a minute.”

Madison’s eyes sparkled. “I can’t believe it—I never thought I’d see you again. And honestly, I almost didn’t recognize you. You look so... different.”

She wasn’t talking about the uniform. I was the photo-negative version of my former self—everywhere light, now dark. My hair, my nails, even the liner around my eyes.

“I never thought I’d see you again, especially at my cousin’s white coat ceremony,” she added, her voice laced with something between awe and uncertainty.

“I’m starting school here next week…majoring in pre-med” I said, adjusting the tray in my hand. “Just working for extra cash.”

“I’m starting too! We’ll be pre-meds together. How have you been…these past few years?” Madison’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and I could already see where this was heading. I didn’t like it.

“Love your dress. Excited for school to start?” I deflected, knowing nothing redirected a Prep schoolgirl’s attention like a well-placed compliment. My gaze flickered to her outfit—tight as ever, a size too small, revealing more than intended…or maybe that’s exactly what the intention was.

“Can’t wait. Not sure how many of us from Coronado made it in,” she said, smoothing down the fabric as the breeze toyed with the hem.

Ah, yes. The Coronado Seal Six—a self-proclaimed elite vortex of former Coronado Prep students who had secured their spots at Pritzker. I scanned the crowd, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“I’d better get going,” I said, shifting my weight.

“We should do a study session some time! It’ll probably be you tutoring me again—just like the old days. I’ll message you,” she chirped, waving like a pageant queen before strutting off.

I spent the next twenty minutes threading the busy crowd like an embroidery needle, passing colorful finger food to sweaty A-listers in business casual. On my way back to the kitchen, I slid between two young men, my tray accidentally jutting against his shoulder. 

“Watch it.”  An unwelcome yet familiar face stared back at me—Zara’s ex boyfriend, Sebastian. In high school, he’d clung to her more tightly than his high-yield brokerage account, probably because she checked every category for him—including a tenfold boost in his social media followers. I tried to veer away, but it was too late. His predatory gaze had already locked onto mine.

“Well, look who it is—the girl who vanished and had half the school convinced she faked her own death. Can’t believe I’m seeing you in person… and not on a milk carton.”
Sebastian’s scowl deepened, his eyes sharp and cold.

Of course the rumors hadn’t faded.
Nothing digital ever does—it’s all etched into the internet like stone.

But he needed to know I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

“What’s that smell?” I asked, tilting my head. “New cologne?”
I paused, then smirked.
“No, wait. Just the stench of your old-money privilege.”

I backed away slowly, my expression dripping with sarcasm.

He ignored the comment. “Watch your back, GoFundMe poster child. It’s your fault what happened… to Layla.”

Zara’s sister. Post-it Lie: My actions have not killed someone. A secret that would destroy both of us if it got out. Even Sebastian, with all his connections and wealth, couldn’t escape that fallout. Like facing a mountain lion, I tried to make myself look bigger. I hadn’t spoken to Zara in over a years, but Sebastian didn’t need to know that.

“Why are you here, Sebastian? Don’t donor students still need a minimum GPA to go pre-med?” I tried to sound bored, but my insides were trembling. I knew exactly what Sebastian was capable of—a kid who once called him out in class for confusing a bear market with a bull market mysteriously ended up with bruises and a limp the next day from basketball.

“Think I’d set foot in a hospital by choice? I’m a finance major. A family friend invited me, not that it’s any of your business.”

An announcement over the speakers instructed every​​one to take their seats. “Saved by the announcement,” I said as I headed toward the kitchen to return my tray and take my legally required—yet well-deserved—break. My tray felt like a ton of bricks, piled high with wine glasses, half-eaten plates of food, and a smelly paper bag courtesy of a kid clutching his stomach after one too many deviled eggs.

As Dean Metsler’s voice echoed across the vineyard, delivering his keynote address, I slipped away from the ceremony, cutting through the crowd toward a small rose garden at the far end of the estate. The sun had softened the chocolate in my pocket, but I popped it into my mouth anyway. I wanted privacy while I licked the sticky remnants from my fingers, like a kindergartener let loose in a sweet shop—shameless and savoring every last bit.

“In my opinion, no one’s too old to lick chocolate from their hands.”

The unexpected voice startled me. I turned to see an older woman approaching—Rosa, I’d later learn—her flyaway grays escaping from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wore a lopsided grin, the kind that hinted at a lifetime of unfiltered wisdom. One hand pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose; the other clutched a watering can.

Must be her garden.

“Lovely, isn’t it? So much goes into creating beauty like this.”

Her accent was noticeable as she plucked a handful of weeds, her expression disapproving—like an aesthetician tending to an overgrown brow.

I leaned against a nearby tree. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”

She let out a small sigh, adjusting her grip on the watering can. “Yeah, it’s my little escape. Too bad my knees don’t always cooperate.” There was something disarming about her honesty that made me feel at ease.

“My grandmother loved roses,” I said, letting my gaze drift over the delicate blooms. “Seeing these makes me think of her.” I shifted my weight against the trunk, relaxing. “Do you live here?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with the Ozlers for almost forty years. They’re like family. I don’t think I could ever leave.”

She spoke fondly of her husband and their early years at the vineyard, her voice rich with nostalgia. But as she bent to grab the watering can, a sharp grimace crossed her face.

“Are you okay?” I stepped closer, concern tightening my chest.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a sore shoulder,” she waved off my worry, but her petite frame lurched forward as she clutched her side. The reassurance in her voice faltered, and I wasn’t convinced.

“You look pale.” I stepped nearer, observing her.

Suddenly, she dropped the pitcher, spilling water as she fell forward. I lunged to catch her, but her weight pulled me down with her. What the hell was happening? Was she having a heart attack?  

I leaned in close, trying to feel her breath against my cheek. I’d seen heart attacks before at the rural clinic in Indonesia. Panic surged from my core to my throat, a visceral reminder that every second mattered. “Help!” I shouted, hoping someone would hear.

Just as I reached for my phone, a worker ran over from the vineyard. “Rosa!” he cried. “What happened?” He froze in place, unsure of what to do.

“She collapsed… she’s not responding. Call 911!” I shouted, my pulse spiking with panic.

I forced myself to focus, running through the steps ingrained in my mind.
A—Airway. I tilted her head back, scanning for any obstructions.
B—Breathing. I listened—nothing.
C—Circulation. My fingers pressed against the side of her neck—no pulse.

Adrenaline surged as I started compressions, my hands locking into position over her sternum.
One, two, three, four… I counted, pushing down hard and fast. Every thirty compressions, I tilted her head back and gave two rescue breaths, willing air into her lungs.

You can do it. Stay with me. 

My arms burning from the force needed to keep her blood circulating. I tried not to think about how fragile she was—how easily her ribs could crack under my weight.

I stole a glance around. Where the hell is that guy? Had he even called 911?

I kept going, alternating between breaths and compressions. Still nothing. Damn it!

At last, the vineyard worker returned, a small group of students trailing behind him. Relief surged through me, though exhaustion was quickly catching up. My shoulders ached, and I hoped someone would step in.

“The ambulance is on the way,” the worker announced. “What can I do?”

I scanned the group, desperate for backup. “Does anyone here know CPR?”

Silence.

Seriously? Not a single one of these so-called future doctors could help?

A few more minutes passed before a faculty member arrived, his tall frame quickly bending over Rosa.

“I’ll take over,” he said, seamlessly stepping in. Together, we alternated between breaths and chest compressions, keeping a steady rhythm.

Sweat dripped down my face, but I had no free hand to wipe it away. My arms burned with exhaustion, but I kept going. Then, finally— a faint pulse. A shallow breath.

She was alive!

Three EMTs arrived and immediately took over. I stepped back, observing as they used a bag-valve mask to support her breathing.

“What happened?” one of them asked, focused but calm as they worked.

“She had acute onset shoulder pain, possibly referred pain from an acute MI. She collapsed with no pulse or breathing, so I started CPR,” I explained, my voice shaky from the adrenaline and exhaustion.

In under a minute, they attached a cardiac defibrillator. The machine detected an arrhythmia, then instructed us to clear the area as it delivered a small shock. Rosa’s eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded my body as the tension in my shoulders melted away.

The EMTs prepared to transport her, and I walked alongside the gurney, feeling a sense of responsibility. 

As they loaded Rosa into the ambulance, an older man approached, holding Rosa’s hand. Her color had returned, and she nodded weakly in his direction—a good sign. I was high on the feeling of bringing life back into the world. Maybe not everything I touched brought death, like it had for my mom and Zara’s sister.  It felt good to be one life to two deaths on the life-death scoreboard. 

I watched as the ambulance pulled away while a large crowd of students and staff grew around us. The faculty member who’d helped with chest compressions walked over, extending his hand.

“I’m Dr. Kieran Thomas, the Vice Dean of Academic Affairs,” he introduced himself.

“Prin De Sangue,” I replied, shaking his hand, though my arm was still sore.

“You’re ACLS certified?” He seemed surprised, glancing at my uniform.

“I learned while working abroad at a rural hospital,” I said, feeling the weight of the afternoon settle over me.

“Lucky for her, you were nearby.” Dr. Thomas wiped sweat from his forehead. We shared a look of mutual understanding—no words were necessary.

Just then, an older gentleman and a young woman carrying a baby approached. “Are you the person who helped Rosa?” he asked, eyeing me with a mix of skepticism and gratitude.

I nodded. “Yes, I think she had a heart attack. But she was conscious by the time the EMTs loaded her. I’m hopeful she’ll be okay. Do you know her?”

“She’s worked with us for years,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The young woman stepped closer, cradling the baby. “You’re a med student?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No. I’m a college freshman—starting next week,” I replied with a weak smile.

They both stared at me in astonishment. “We can’t thank you enough,” the woman said, gripping my hand. Her voice wavered as she rocked the baby, trying to calm it down.

Instead of soothing the child, the baby let out an ear-splitting scream—followed by a spectacular stream of projectile vomit. Right onto my uniform. And my hair. And my face.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” The woman gasped, mortified, and frantically handed me a burp cloth.

I wiped my face and hair while she tried to clean up the baby. “I’m okay,” I assured her, swallowing a sigh. I’d dealt with worse.

After all, I survived elite boarding school—this wasn’t my first run-in with vomit. At least this time, it didn’t reek of cheap vodka.

Surprisingly, the  uniform held up well—the vomit slid right off. It likely wouldn’t be the last bodily fluid it encountered over the next four years.

***