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“Quinn,” he says, stopping. “What is happening? Is someone trying to hurt you?”

I snort before I can stop myself but then realize he’s serious. I turn to him and shake my head.

“No, Professor.”

I can’t tell him the truth. Look how uptight he is. He’s a nice guy. Genuinely nice, a good person. One of the kinds of people that make me not want to be responsible for destroying the world.

“Then tell me, please, what is going on? I’ve talked to your other teachers. Your grades are slipping, which is honestly an understatement. You’ve missed most of your classes. I’m familiar with your finances because of the…” he hesitates and stumbles over his words, “trip. You need your scholarships, but if you don’t get your grades up by semester end, you’ll lose several of them.”

His words are a punch to the gut, and a hiss slips out. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. I don’t need this. Not now. No matter how right he is.

“I know,” I say. My voice is soft but rings with resignation. I don’t see any way to fix the mess that my life has become, but I’m not going to tell him that. “I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s my point, Quinn,” he says. “You don’t have to do this alone. There are counselors on campus, free to all students. Financial counselors and mental health ones too. You look exhausted. Have you slept?”

“I appreciate your concern.” I shake my head. “There’s a lot happening right now. My dad is sick and it’s getting worse. Mom needs my help and I’m a bit ragged.”

“I am very sorry, Quinn,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”

Cure him? Why do we say things like that? Platitudes are such a waste of breath. They’re the things you say when you have no idea what to say. The reason you don’t know what to say is because there’s nothing to say. Sometimes life is a big bag of burning shit on your doorstep. No matter what you do, you’re screwed.

I bite off my nasty thoughts. If my mom taught me nothing else it’s that if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing. I purse my lips and hold in all the vile and dark thoughts. No point in infecting this man who wants nothing more than to help.

Left with nothing to say, this entire encounter feels awkward. I need to get away. Coffee. That’s the answer. I shrug, shake my head, and look around partly to make sure no weird shadows are creeping up on us.

“I thought your mom had already passed?” he asks.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, my attention snapping to him.

He shakes his head, then rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger as if it hurts. When he moves his hand his eyes are glazed and he smiles.

“Well, if you need anything,” he says, “let me know how I can help.”

He turns and walks away.

“Professor?” I call after him but the door to the building closes behind him and he doesn’t seem to have heard.

I walk towards the door, then stop. Revulsion fills my stomach with bile and pain explodes in my head.

ChapterThirteen

“Here,”Moira says, handing me a cup. I take the warm Styrofoam in my trembling hand and inhale deeply of the rich, full-bodied odors of the coffee. “Four extra shots. You need it; you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, watching steam slip through the sipping hole.

I made my way toReduxas soon as the pain stopped. I don’t know what happened. I must have misheard the professor. That’s the only thing that makes sense. The headache has calmed to a dull pressure ache behind my eyes but I’m still nauseous.

“Quinn, I know we haven’t known each other long.”

My heart sinks. Those are the preamble words that come before a statement you know you’re not going to want to hear. She places a hand over my free one on the table. Her fingernails have a beautiful, glistening black polish. Has she always had that? Is that new? That’s right, focus on her manicure, maybe that will keep her from saying what’s coming next.

“I’m fine, Moira.”

I want to stop this before it goes there. I don’t need another person telling me how bad I look or how they want to help me. No one can help me. I’m in deep and I can’t share it with anyone. No one would believe me if I did. All I want is this cup of coffee. Everything else can wait.

“Yeah,” she says.

We sit in silence while I stare at the coffee cup between occasional sips. I’m acutely aware of every shadow in the room, watching them while trying to not look like I am. A few more hours. Tonight. One way or another I’m going to get answers from the Druid.

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