I’m already back at the dorm, my delicious croissant obliterated. I scan my card to get in, and frown when the door buzzes instead of sliding open. I scan it a second time, still frowning.

I see the security guy at the front desk start to walk towards me, and smile. The dorms are a lot fancier than what I would have expected of a student housing building, but Rothford is definitely that kind of school.

He opens the door and stands in the middle, blocking the entrance. “Ms. Fairmont?”

I frown. “That’s me.”

“Your dorm key has been cancelled. You will need to speak to the administration.”

“Oh.” It makes sense, when I think about it. “I had an enrollment issue, but it’s all been fixed this morning.”

“Great. Speak to the front desk at Rose Hall. They’ll be able to reissue your dorm card,” he tells me.

Sighing, I head back towards the other side of the road. Well, it’s a good thing classes start tomorrow. I suppose today’s meant to be all about figuring out the admin side of things.

I can’t lie: being back in this building isn’t fun. Even this morning, when I came to grab my schedule, I was a little stressed out, but now, the quieter atmosphere brings back all my fear and desperation from yesterday. I swallow it down.

There are a few students waiting ahead of me, asking for random things, from lunch schedule to swimming club information. When it’s my turn, I smile at the welcoming receptionist—not the same one I saw yesterday, thank fuck.

“Hi. My enrollment got a bit messed up over the weekend, and reinstated this morning. My dorm card’s not working though.” I place it on the counter, between the two of us.

The pretty brunette adjusts her glasses and smile. “Let me look for you.”

She takes my card, scans it, and starts typing away, then scrolling, and scrolling, and reading.

“Oh, I see.”

It’s taking long, long seconds—or minutes—that don’t help me feel any better. Isn’t it supposed to be an easy fix? Shouldn’t she tell me it’s going to be sorted in a second?

But she says nothing. She types and reads and scroll, for what seems like forever. Then, she leans in, pressing on a button. “Steph, would you mind coming to the front desk? I’m handling something.”

Why am I something to handle? Why does she need help?

A glance behind me shows me there’s a bit of a queue now, all of them listening in, just like I listened to the students getting helped before me.

A perky blonde—the one who handed me my schedule—arrives shortly, and my receptionist stands. “Would you mind stepping in the office for a minute?”

I follow her in silence, my hands tightening on the hem of my shirt.