Opening scene

I glanced around and frowned.

"I'm telling you, he's not here. Just some student org table."

A few minutes earlier, I'd crossed the quad. It wasn't crowded, but there were enough people hanging around that the scene at the table had an audience: a heavy-set guy, definitely too old to be a student, going off on a wide-eyed freshman while everyone else pretended not to listen.

"Rocco just texted me," my friend said in my ear. "He's waiting for you right there. Check again."

"All I see is that older guy screaming at a freshman."

"That… sounds like it's him."

That's when it hit me. The guy I'd just walked past, the one making a scene, was Rocco.

I froze. Part of me wanted to leave him to it. But I have this stupid rule: if someone's waiting for me, I show up, no matter how unhinged the situation is.

"Alright," I said, turning back toward the table. "Let me check again…"

Something in the air felt briefly out of sync, like a skipped frame.

A migraine shot through me without warning, sharp enough to tilt the world. The low static I'd lived with for years spiked into a metallic shriek behind my eyes.

"Fantastic," I said to myself, pressing my fingers to my temple. "Okay. That's new."

A green-violet flash ripped across my vision, the quad smearing like a melting frame of film. A blast of freezer air followed. Precise. Deliberate. Like something had arrived and was already unimpressed.

Then it was gone.

I blinked at nothing. Finals-week brain, I told myself.

So I kept walking, pushing through the edge of the crowd, and before I realized it, I was suddenly in the middle of it:

"Listen," Rocco was shouting, hands everywhere, "this is how it happens. Someone adds a thing. They tell you it's temporary. Everyone's tired, so they let it slide. And then it's just… there. Forever."

The freshman nodded, too fast, like he wasn't sure what part he was agreeing to.

"Rocco," I said, cutting in, "are you giving this guy a warning or a lecture?"

He blinked at me, annoyed. "A warning. Obviously."

"About what?"

"Soda tax," he said. "It's not even about soda. It's about how the small stuff never goes away."

What had I walked into? Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a choice. It was only going to last the weekend, maybe a few days more. I just had to get through it.

I took a few steps toward the cars, then glanced back to see if he was coming.

The crowd started to thin.

————

"Chase Dalton," I said, properly introducing myself this time.

"I know who you are," he replied, nodding once. "You're the history guy, right? Anyway, we can get going. I'll grab the whip."

I slowed. "The tent's at my place."

"That's fine," he said, wobbling off toward the lot, casually

eating loose Froot Loops straight from his hoodie pocket. A red Hanson Middle of Nowhere wristband kept flickering in and out before he vanished behind a row of sunbaked sedans.

Rocco headed to the lot to grab his car, which left me alone with my thoughts. I was a week from graduating, which meant my brain had already checked out and my body was just waiting for the diploma.

Three months earlier, I'd made what now felt like a tragic mistake: enrolling in History of Indigenous Peoples to fulfill my final elective. I told everyone it was genuine interest.

It wasn't.

I assumed an easy A—light reading, minimal work. Instead, every assignment made me feel like I'd wandered into something I didn't know how to carry.

The final project made that official:

> Embark on a pilgrimage to a sacred Native American site and describe the moment you shift from observer to participant.

Because nothing says enlightenment like

a hungover undergrad trying to reverse-

engineer a revelation before finals week.

Professor Nayer liked to say modern people lived on autopilot, drifting through their own lives like background extras. He also sold incense out of his office.

I wrote the idea down so I could pretend I was mocking it. It stayed in my notebook.

So when my car was in the shop, and Rocco, a friend of a friend, volunteered to drive out to the middle of nowhere, I went along with it.

A minute later, I spotted him rolling up in a sun-bleached '84 El Camino, Van Halen blasting like it was trying to rattle the bolts loose.

"Jump in!" he called out.

Graduation was a week away, and I was determined to keep things simple. No chaos. No drama. Definitely no weird detours.

I had this tiny, stupid thought: if I bailed now, I'd be the same person next week, and the week after. Maybe the pilgrimage wouldn't fix that, but staying home definitely wouldn't.

I climbed into the passenger seat and fiddled with the radio. A pop song came on, catchy and stupid in all the right ways. I almost left it, but Rocco looked like a classic-rock guy, so I kept going until I hit the Chili Peppers. Close enough.

Rocco turned the key. The engine caught, gravel spat out behind us, and my last excuse blew apart in the dust.

I wasn't here for enlightenment or whatever Professor Nayer wanted, just the fastest path to a finished assignment.

Get in, get it done, get back home. Practical. Efficient. Easy.