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But the answers are right.

I’m almost certain they’re right.

I work through the booklet slowly, forcing myself to read every question twice before answering. A few come easily. A few don’t.

There’s one on cranial nerves that I stare at long enough for the words to stop looking like English. Another asks about muscle contraction, and I have to close my eyes and picture Bea lining up pens across the lab bench to represent actin and myosin.

My hands keep wanting to tap against the desk. They’ve done it my whole life—waiting for a cue, building a rhythm, looking for something to play. I make them hold the pen instead.

By the time I reach the final page, I’ve changed six answers and circled two questions to come back to. I finish with forty minutes left, which January-me would have considered suspicious evidence that I’d missed half the booklet.

I use almost all of it for checking.

When I finally close the booklet, I don’t know whether I’ve passed. I’m pretty sure I have, though. I definitely knew a heck of a lot more than the last time I sat this. But there’s still a small part of me wondering if I’ve done anything.

Still, pride pushes through the nerves. I’ve fuckin’ completed a tough science class. My father would be so surprised.

I want to tell him that.

More than that, I want to tell Bea.

The sadness wipes the pride away almost as quickly as it arrives.

I raise my hand. The proctor collects the booklet and places it face down on the stack.

I walk out of Hartley into ordinary afternoon light.

My phone is already in my hand by the time I reach the steps.

For months, every test result, correctly labeled diagram and stupid mnemonic has belonged partly to Bea.

My thumb hovers over her name.

I don’t press it. She asked for space. Passing an exam—or possibly passing an exam—doesn’t give me permission to ignore that. I put the phone away.

I got what I came to Mountain Springs for.

Or I’m close.

Now I have to wait for the results to tell me whether close is enough. Whether I’ve done what I came to do: unlock the Trust and pay the guys back. So we can start making music again together. Clean slate.

I should be checking my phone for news from our new manager, but for once, I’ve done what I can and left the rest with the people it belongs to.

The band might still be coming back.

* * *

I’ve resisted reaching out to Bea, trying to give her the space she asked for.

But it’s the morning of her MCAT.

I’m out at Lake Violet. It’s a good place to write now that spring is in full bloom.

I take a photo of the green trees.

Not good luck. She’d hate good luck. Luck’s got nothing to do with it; she’s worked damn hard for this.

Cal