Page 4 of Mine To Hunt

“You did too.” She insists. “Then suddenly she comes back with absolute gold. After apologizing like she forgot her own name.”

Al lets out a deep, rumbling laugh that makes my lips twitch despite myself.

“Again?” He says, nudging my shoulder. “Ree, that’s like your third time this semester.”

I shrug.

“What’s got you so distracted?” He goes on. “Dreaming up your next bestseller while the rest of us peasants scribble haikus?”

“Shut up.” I mutter, though there’s no real bite to it.

Al’s like that. Always joking. Always dissolving the tension before it can settle.

“Seriously.” I add. “It’s not a big deal. I just need more coffee.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Coffee? Blasphemy.”

“Oh God.”

“What you need,” he declares, “is one of my sculptures to smack you awake.”

Maddie snorts.

“I just finished this bust.” Al continues. “Looks like Kingsley if he lost a fight with a chisel.”

“Al…”

“Want me to sneak it into his office?”

Maddie bursts out laughing. “Do it.”

She points at me. “And when campus security shows up, Ree can write our alibis.”

I shake my head, already knowing this is exactly how I’m going to get dragged into whatever stupid idea comes next.

We keep walking, the path curving toward the canteen. The air's crisp, nipping at my ears, but the banter warms me up. Al launches into a story about his latest critique. Some professors tearing into their abstract pieces like they're modern art's worst enemy. "Swear to God, the guy said it looked like'a cry for help from a toddler.'A toddler! I spent three nights on that thing."

"No way." I say, laughing for real now. The knot in my chest loosens a bit. "What'd you say back?"

"Nothing smart. Just nodded and thought about how his tie screamed'midlife crisis.'But hey, pass/fail, right? As long as it doesn't melt."

Maddie chimes in, "Speaking of melting, did you see the assignment for next week? Kingsley's got us analyzing stream-of-consciousness in Woolf. I'm already drowning."

Al groans. "Ugh, lit majors. You get to play with words while we get carpal tunnel from chisels. Let’s trade my next piece for your essay?"

"Deal." I say, bumping his arm. It's easy with them, this rhythm we've built over three years at St. Alden. Maddie, with her Theater Major flair, always directing invisible scenes. Al, with his quiet intensity behind the jokes. And me, piecing stories together like puzzles. They ground me, even when my head's a mess.

But as we cross the quad, a prickle runs down my spine. Like eyes on my back, heavy and unseen. I slow, glancing over my shoulder. Students mill about, a group laughing by the fountain, someone hurrying with a stack of books. Nothing out of place. No one staring. My pulse ticks up anyway, a weird flutter in my throat.

"You good?" Al asks, noticing my pause.

"Yeah." I lie, picking up the pace. "Just thought I dropped something."

Maddie eyes me but doesn't push. "Well, if you're dropping brains in class, maybe start with that."

The canteen looms ahead, all glass and chatter. We grab trays. Me with a turkey wrap and salad, Maddie piling on chips likethey're going extinct, and Al opting for pizza and that chocolate chip biscuit he always gets. The line moves quickly, and soon we're weaving through tables, the smell of grease and coffee hitting us.

We claim our usual spot by the windows. Scratched-up table, chairs that wobble if you lean wrong. I drop my bag and dig in, the wrap's crunch a welcome distraction. Al slides into the seat next to me, close enough that his knee brushes mine under the table. It's casual, like always.