I do a quick mental scan of all the people I know, and what I end up with is a harsh, painful truth: I’m friendly with everybody...but I’m friends with nobody.

This sounds exactly like the sort of realization that should inspire a good hour of careful soul-searching. Under any other circumstance, it probably would. But the rush of fear and adrenaline pulsing through my veins won’t let me rest, and already I’m making more calculations, trying my best to strategize my next move.

So I don’t have any close relationships to rely on during a personal, potentially supernatural crisis. Fine. Whatever. I can be objective about this. Treat this like an extra-credit question on a test, where all that matters is getting the right answer.

Now, objectively speaking, there is a person here at school who might prove useful. A certain person who reads obscure academic journals for enjoyment and once interned at NASA and didn’t even blink that time a North Korean dignitary rocked up at our school. A certain person who might actually be calm and competent enough to figure this shit out.

And if he doesn’t have any idea what’s happening to me... Well, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing there’s a puzzle Henry Li can’t solve.

Before my pride can catch up to my logic and convince me why this is a terrible idea, I march toward the one building I never thought I’d go near, let alone seek out intentionally.

Minutes later, I’m staring up at the words painted over a set of vermillion double-doors in sweeping calligraphy:

Mencius

Hall.

I take a deep breath. Check to make sure no one’s watching. Then push open the doors and walk in.

All four of the dorm buildings on campus are named after ancient Chinese philosophers: Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, and Mozi. It sounds pretty classy and everything, until you stop and think about the number of horny teens who’ve hooked up in Confucius Hall.

Mencius is by far the fanciest building of them all. The corridors are wide and spotless, as if swept clean by the school ayis at hourly intervals, and the walls are a rich shade of ocean blue, decorated with framed ink paintings of birds and sprawling mountains. If it weren’t for the names printed over every door, the place could probably pass for a five-star hotel.

It doesn’t take long to find Henry’s room. His parents were the ones who donated this building, after all, so the school decided it was more than fair to assign him the only single room at the end of the hall.

To my surprise, his door has been left half-open—I’d always pegged him as the type to be super private about his personal space. I take a tentative step forward and pause in the doorway, overcome by a sudden, inexplicable urge to smooth out my hair.

Then I remember why I’m here in the first place, and a bubble of hysterical laughter rises up inside me.