“Hey,” Elliot said suddenly, the mocking tone gone from his voice. “What’s this?” Turning, I saw him bend down and scoop up a small white envelope off the ground. Deciding to capitalize on his distraction, I hurried down the hall, relieved not to feel his leering presence at my side anymore.

“Hey, Fitz!” Elliot called. “It has your name on it!”

I ignored him and kept walking. This was just one of Elliot’s tricks. He’d get me to walk back there, and then he’d say something stupid, and I’d lose whatever cool I was managing to maintain.

“Hey!” Elliot called again. “I’m serious. It has your name on it!” I heard him jogging to catch up to me, and I quickened my pace. I was almost to the door that would take me out of the simulation building and into the sunshine. Tomorrow he’d ace that test, like he aced every test, and he’d move across campus to start the next phase of the Academy. With any luck, I wouldn’t see his sneering face again until I moved up myself. I was about to put my hand on the wall sensor that would open the door and let me out, but something stopped me.

Someday, I would look back at this moment and wonder what it was that kept me from walking away from Elliot Mason forever. But whatever it was, I stopped, and I turned, arms crossed, to face him. Seeing me turn, Elliot slowed down and walked the last few feet to catch up to me. Without a word, he handed me the envelope. The envelope’s paper felt unusually thick, much better quality than the thin stuff our assignments were usually printed on. I flipped it over and felt my stomach flop sickeningly. He was right. My name was scrawled across the front, but that wasn’t what made me feel ill. It’s that the name was written in my handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere, the way the loop of my g was always just a tad too large. But I knew I’d never held this envelope before.

“Open it,” Elliot prompted me impatiently.

I shook my head as I turned the envelope back over in my hands. My brain felt muddled as I tried to remember a time that I’d written my name on this, but I kept coming up short. It felt like trying to remember a dream after waking up, like the memory was there, but just out of reach.

“Come on,” Elliot said, “open it. I want to see who wrote you a letter. Do you have a secret admirer no one knows about?”

“Don’t be dumb,” I said as I rubbed the paper between my fingers, noting a texture and weight to it that was completely foreign. Suddenly it clicked like a bolt in a lock.