‘Here!’ Pat grabbed my hand suddenly and yanked me to the side. He knelt down and began digging through the snow like a dog. It took me a minute to wipe the snow from my watering eyes and see what he was doing, and another minute to understand.

The tunnels.

This time, I trusted him. I followed him immediately down into the pitch-darkness, racing down the wooden ladder so rapidly I stepped on his head.

Down in the tunnels, it was dry and dark and a little warmer. We hit the ground, both breathing heavily, and hurried forward. When we reached a turn, I asked, ‘Which way is Boys’ Quad?’

‘No, we should go to Girls’ Quad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because look …’ Pat held out the phone he’d been using as our flashlight.

‘You have service?’ I asked excitedly.

I had been trying and trying to call Mary Kate, and Pat had been trying and trying to call the guys at the party. The cell coverage on our campus is always shitty, which has me convinced the administration made a pact with either the devil or T-Mobile to keep us from sending sexy Snapchats. But tonight, in the howling wind and whirling blizzard, it was downright non-existent.

‘No service, but look at the time,’ Pat said. ‘It’s eleven already. It’s after curfew! She’s gotta be back in your room. Has Mary Kate ever missed curfew?’

‘SHE’S NOT HERE!’ I wailed. ‘I TOLD YOU, SHE’S DEAD!’

I was tearing around our little dorm room, yanking the duvets off our beds, flinging the wardrobe doors open, searching for Mary Kate in all these tiny, weird places even she couldn’t possibly fit.

Pat was shutting the window. We’d raced through the underground tunnel towards Girls’ Quad, climbed out, dashed through the snow to my dorm and climbed in through the window so Sister Hellda wouldn’t see Pat.

‘She probably just forgot because she was having too much fun at the recruit party,’ he said. ‘Hey! It’s the first snow! Maybe she fell in love!’

‘You said it yourself – Mary Kate NEVER misses curfew,’ I panted. ‘And there’s no way she fell in love. That party was full of jock misogynist CREEPS. They probably spiked her drink. She’s probably being used in some weird satanic hockey sex ritual right now with blood smeared on her forehead and guys in helmets all around her, chanting.’

‘We don’t usually do that ritual on Fridays,’ Pat reassured me. ‘That’s more a Wednesday kinda thing. Besides –’ he pulled me in for a hug – ‘not every guy on the hockey team is a sex-crazed psychopath, you know.’

For a moment, I let myself lean against him, resting my head against his wet fleece, inhaling the bonfire smell of his sweater. Then a horrible parallel occurred to me and I was hit by a fresh wave of panic.