“Nope,” I say, and she responds with an exaggerated pout. “And careful, your mask is going to wrinkle.”

She stops pouting at once, settling instead for a stiff poker face as she hurries to smooth out the edges of her mask again. If I wasn’t trying so hard to keep my lunch down, I might’ve laughed.

“Anyway,” I say, completing another lap around our tiny dorm room. My feet refuse to stay still. “I’m not withholding information this time because I don’t trust you. But the less people know, the less likely things will go horribly wrong—and the less liable you’ll be.”

“But Henry knows.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well. That’s because I need him for something. Speaking of which...” I glance up at the clock, and my heart seizes. 5:50 p.m. It’s time.

Oh my god. This is really happening.

When I speak again, my voice comes out as a squeak. “I—I should go find him now. Get this over with.”

I leave everything except my phone in the dorm and rush outside, barely catching Chanel’s quick “good luck!” as the door swings shut behind me.

Henry and I agreed to meet by the main entrance of the humanities building at 6:00 p.m. At exactly 5:59 p.m., we both arrive at the same time, and I have to give it to him—Henry might be unbearably pretentious, but at least he’s punctual.

He also happens to look especially put together today; his dark blazer freshly ironed, his tie straight, not a single hair out of place. I almost laugh. He looks like he’s about to deliver a speech to the school, rather than help me pull off a crime.

“Alice,” he says when he sees me, ever so polite.

“Henry.” I return his greeting with a mock salute, mimicking his formal tone.

Faint irritation flits over his face. Good. If Henry is in the mood to bicker with me, then at least I’ll have something to keep me distracted from my nerves—

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

Or not.

“Why would you think I’m nervous?” I snap, reaching over his shoulder to yank open the door.

“Well, you appear to be shaking.”

I follow his gaze, and hastily hide my trembling hands in my pockets, pushing past him into the building. “It’s cold,” I mutter.

“It’s twenty-two degrees right now.”

My jaw clenches. “What are you, the weatherman?”

“Really? The weatherman?” His voice is light, amused. “Not your best insult, Alice.”

I try to stab him to death with my eyes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

I keep walking.

The corridor is almost completely empty, as it should be. No student wants to stay behind after class, especially when our dorms are only a courtyard away, or when they can take a Didi to the Village or Solana. But for the teachers, it’s a different story. Most of them bike to school, and like to hang back in the classrooms until after dark, when the streets outside aren’t as crowded and the probability of being run over by a car is significantly lower. Mr. Murphy is one of them.