That’s a good enough explanation for this group of people. I don’t have to justify myself to them. It’s okay that I’m not taking the traditional path of living in the dorm and being on campus. I’m not cutting myself off from the college experience. I have it, right here. I’m accepted. I belong. And I love the sound of having family in Eben Cape. I absolutely love it.

“I need coffee,” Pete says. “I was up too late last night. Anybody else?” He waves off the chorus of orders. “Never mind. Everybody’s getting black coffee. You can add whatever you want to it.”

“Wait. I’ll give you money.” Megan reaches for her purse.

“This one’s on me.” Pete leaves before she can push any bills into his hand.

It’s so nice. I can’t stop smiling. We can do this for each other. Get coffees for the table. Drop by with food. These tiny moments are what make a group of friends. Small acts of kindness for one another. I’m so happy to be part of it.

It’s a dream come true. A dream I didn’t know I had, honestly. College used to be a goalpost. It was about working and getting good grades and moving on. That’s what I thought. But it’s not about that at all. It’s about what you have in the here and now.

“You could go off-campus, Kev,” Grace says. “There are some good houses.”

“The dorms are so much more convenient.”

Grace groans. “Yeah, but you’ll be surrounded with other pre-med students. It’s like living in a bubble. You need a different perspective.”

“Goals,” says Kevin.

“Goals are not life,” she says. “A house means more freedom.”

“A dorm means less bills,” Kevin counters.

“What if you meet in the middle?” I ask.

“What, like, we both live in tents in the quad?” Grace jokes.

A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. A dark shape moving on the other side of the patio fence. Someone passing by. I’m about to ignore it. About to sink back into the conversation when the back gate bursts open.

“What the hell?” Megan says.

I can’t say anything.

It’s Joe.

Joe in his suit and tie from the trial, his eyes wild. A gun in his hand.

Someone screams.

It’s chaos.

Joe’s on a mission. He stalks through the tables, shoving people aside, and grabs my arm. His fingers dig in. I try to hold the edge of the table. He can’t drag me out if I have the table with me. My fingers are too slippery. It doesn’t work. He hauls me away from my chair. Grace is out of hers, shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Let go of her. What the hell are you doing?”