“With an emphasis on consequence.”
If there were an appendix on how a brain learned to live with fear, mine would qualify.
My last name wasn't exactly private knowledge.
Anyone with time and curiosity could pull up the headlines.
Was that why he’d chosen me?
Had he read them?
Had he seen my name in old articles and decided my damage made me useful?
The thought should’ve made me angry. It did. It also made something else in me lean closer.
“Why the shift?” I blurted. “You started with a memoir. Why move away from your own experiences?”
“My life was only an example. It’s not the whole point.”
For the first time since I’d sat down, Henry leaned back fully in his chair. The column of his throat dipped with the hum he made.
“People fixate on the origin story. The first injury, the first loss. But pain itself is universal, Archibald. As unpleasant as it is to admit, my story isn’t unique. Whatisunique are the variations in response, but even those fall within a range.”
“Structure,” I mumbled. “You’re studying structure. Not suffering.”
“Thatis why I chose you.”
I fought the urge to fidget under his stare—his praise.
“You’re sure? I mean—I know how to read,obviously,but this is… heavy. And I’m not exactly?—”
“Rabbit.”
I clamped my mouth shut.
“The essay you included with your application is proof that you can do this, and if anyone in this building decides to make you feel as though you didn’t earn that badge clipped to your bag,you tell me.”
It wasn’t the words.No.It was the way he said them—like he’d already decided I was worth defending.
Like my doubt was an inconvenience he intended to remove.
“Don’t overthink it, Archibald.”
“I’m totally not,” I lied.
His mouth twitched. “Let’s get to work then.”
5
HENRY
Wexley students never left all at once. They drifted, packed bags too slowly, asked one last question they didn’t need answered—something vague but designed to be remembered.
I tolerated it.
Barely.
The lecture hall still smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something citrusy, the kind of scent that lingered on bodies dressed too fucking well for how little they paid attention. I shut my laptop with a decisive click and began stacking my notes, aligning the edges without really thinking about it.