My stomach isn’t helping either, growling low enough for the people around me to hear. If Josh hadn’t dragged me to his room, I would’ve had time to eat lunch. Now I’m starving, and it’ll be hours before the dining hall is open for dinner.

The iced coffee I bought from the campus café this morning is definitely gone. I’m already plotting on how to get back to the dorm and grab the box of granola bars hidden under my bed before Fowler gets there and forces me to small talk.

God, that’s one more thing snatched away from me. Josh has one of the rare single rooms on campus, which means it’s been a safe haven, a sanctuary where I can use the spare key he gave me to be alone if needed. Alone, and—most important—away from the annoying little Goody Two-shoes I’m forced to share this space with.

And now that’s gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The final bell rings, and I’m the first out of the classroom. Political science is in the Henry building across campus from my dorm, so it takes some time to get back there, but if I’m not mistaken, Fowler should be at the music club until five or six, so perhaps I’m in the clear for the next few hours.

When I get to my door, I reach into my pocket, looking for my key ring, except it isn’t there.

I dig into my other pocket. Just my phone.

Wallet in the back right pocket. The back left pocket is empty like always.

Okay, Neil, don’t panic. Don’t worry because you always have your key in your right pocket, because that’s where it always is and now it isn’t for some reason. You probably just left it in your backpack, put it in one of the pockets.

Except it isn’t there.

Even after emptying my entire backpack on the floor, there isn’t a single key to be found.

I slowly bang my head against the door. How long will it take to concuss myself? I’ve seen guys in football games get smacked a lot harder and be … okay-ish? Maybe I should just do it harder? That’ll give me an excuse not to go to the wedding this weekend.

Except when I go to smack my head again, the door opens and I stumble forward and trip, actually hitting my head on the floor before I can catch myself. The result is a sharp pain, and an instant headache that no amount of rolling over or rubbing my forehead will make go away. I open my eyes slowly, ignoring the pain, and I see Wyatt Fowler staring up at me. Or rather, down at me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“You were banging on the door.”

“I lost my keys.”