BINARY LINES AND A BEST FRIEND CALLED BEN

You know that saying, good things happen to good people? They don’t happen to me. The world doesn’t help me. I’m not here to leave behind an anonymous donation or save a person. I’m here to break into the top STEM university in the world.

I'm crouched under a bush at the edge of campus grounds, watching drones and security patrols go by. I've been here for hours already, waiting for that time of night where you can’t see your fingers waving in front of your face. All my focus is halfway up the wall of the campus gate, where the red lights of security cameras flicker.

The spiky leaves dig into my skin, the cold November wind rattling the chain-link fences and the crunch of combat boots as guards pass keeping me alert. Behind the fences, looming brick buildings mixed with smooth metal and marble mix together, towering proudly over the rest of the city. Buildings people living here can brag about. You won’t believe what we have, just down the street, they say. A historical landmark! My cousin studied there, you know. We’re so proud.

The campus guards are bundled up. I can hear the swish of coats and boots as they stomp their way through the snow. Can’t say I blame them. My own scarf is wrapped around the lower half of my face, warm and hiding my features. I’m nothing, if not efficient.

The cameras I see are dupes or antiques. Nobody has hardware jutting out from the wall anymore. Microscopic lenses hide in frames and walls. Of course, not even a university like Cornell relies on technologyalone. I can’t be seen.

Ben and I had a basic plan, hacked security patrols scribbled on, checked a hundred times, but there was no way to test it out before tonight. It still might fail. The thought of more wasted time sends bile up my throat and I check the time.

Five minutes left.

RATTING DAY

The hearthquake come when I’m stacking flat rocks, one on top of the other, and throw me and my little tower down to the dirt like I personally offended Gord or something. It ain’t nothing like the shakes happening all month. This one grab me, right in my stomach, rocks raining down on me, leaving me sick and dizzy and blinking up at the grey sky.

My leg hurt. It’s the first thing I notice, when I try to loosen up and the pain knife its way up my ankle. It’s throbbing, pants and sock sticking to my skin in the tacky way only blood does. Mum will kill me. At least, she’s going to rant about it. Dad won’t. Not about fishing, so he won’t care.

On second thought, I’ll take the blood. More better hurt by a rock than Mum clucking in disappointment.

My third thought isn’t heven a full thought—just the glimpse, realization at the back of my head when I look off to the side. There’s a bush next to me, one of them stubbly dog-catchers with red flowers in the springtime. The fruit catch onto you and that’s it, you won’t never get rid of them. You’s find the bastards in your hair on your next birthday. But I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking how, right under the dog-catcher, there’s a gleam of beady eyes.

THE BEATEN PATHS

It was just a rock. Twice as big as her head and sickly-green, but something ridged rubbed against her hand under the moss. Easy to pick out the letters, carved roughly into the rock face—Ahmed Osmanović.

The blood swarmed her ears. There were others. Five of them, huddled together, names covered by fungi. Underneath her hands, dug into the dirt somewhere, bones were waiting.

She scrambled back, fingers electrified. The sun was hidden, but her eyes saw the graves in bright flashes, shadows left behind in bruised smears of tar. Ahmed, the stone taunted her. Decaying since 1995.

A choked cry tore out of her mouth, and she flung herself forward. Her eyes were burning in her skull, tears dripping down into the forest floor. Thorns dug into her thighs, the pain shooting up and through her skull, leaving a red imprint behind. Her foot slipped, and she crashed back down, sliding closer to the graves. Another wordless cry, louder this time.

A last, desperate attempt, and her hand closed around a wrist. The cracked skin and brittle fingernails grabbed onto her, tugged her through the last line of bushes and onto the trail.

Her feet touched the ground and she burst into noisy tears.