Arm in arm, we headed down the rickety stairs of our apartment building. When we reached the foyer, I tugged on Ezra’s arm.

“Have you checked the mail at all this week?” I asked.

He shook his head. I fumbled around in my pocket, grabbing out the keys and unlocking our mailbox. Several official-looking envelopes fluttered to the ground.

“Oh, yay! Bills,” I muttered sarcastically, stooping to pick them up. But one caught my eye. I handed the rest to Ezra, eyes locked on the logo on the top corner of the envelope.

“Uh … is that from the university?” Ezra asked, peering over my shoulder. “It’s probably just some alumni crap for me⁠—”

“It’s for me.” My hands were shaking. “Why would they be sending me a letter?”

Ezra nudged me towards the door. “I’m going to be late for work, but I’ll drive so you can open it in the car.”

My feet suddenly felt like lead as I trudged out behind him. Every time I thought about university, I could hear Professor Proctor like it was yesterday, ranting at me about laziness, and disorganisation, and lack of talent and creativity, and plagiarism, and lawsuits, and …

Ezra clicked my seatbelt on. “Open it. It’s not going to bite you.” He started the car, warm air blasting over me. With fingers that felt suddenly thick and unwieldy, I opened the envelope.

Dear Miss Bliss,

I would like to personally extend my most sincere apologies for the misunderstanding that resulted in the termination of your enrolment dated October 3rd …

I blinked away from the paper, my entire body prickling. “You read it, Ez.”

He took the paper from me. “Dear Miss⁠—”

“Not out loud!’ I screeched. “Just … read it silently to yourself, and then give me the gist of it while you drive.”

I tucked my knees up to my chin and closed my eyes. And I didn’t move from that position the entire drive to the hospital. Not even when Ezra told me what the point of the letter was.

* * *

Was I having an out-of-body experience? It felt like my head was floating somewhere above me as I set up my art materials in the activity room. And it wasn’t a good out-of-body experience.

Or was it? I couldn’t work out how I was meant to feel about the apology or the offer that had been made to me.

How had Professor Proctor even found out the truth? That was where my brain had gotten stuck. The only people who knew about what had really happened back then were me, Ezra, Chad, and …

And SJ.

But no, SJ hadn’t known the name of the professor in question. Hadn’t even known which university I attended.

But he did know Chad.