FOURTEEN

Ezra

NOON

Ezra had never seen Frankie run that fast, even while palming the lump on her head, which didn’t seem to slow her down. She flew around corners, she raced up the footpaths in the middle of the campus’s rolling hills, she tucked into alleyways.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he heaved as he raced to catch up to her. The wind and the snow pierced his already angry skin, and he felt his fury rising. All they had to do was stay! And be compliant. He was certain he could have cleared them. Why was everything with Frankie a level-five shitstorm?

He and Frankie used to do this all the time. Not flee from the campus security (obviously) but race all over campus. She’d just look at him whenever, wherever, and say: Run! And it was their unspoken agreement that they’d throw themselves into an all-out sprint. Usually, she’d end up grabbing his arm and tugging him back in an attempt to slow him down or clinging to the waistband of his jeans and trying to pants him. Frankie would do anything for a win, which meant that Ezra got to retaliate by picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder or by lumbering down the sidewalk with her hugging his leg. It was impossible not to end somewhere on the ground, limbs intertwined, tears streaking down their faces. The innocent hilarity of young love.

Today though, he saw only her back. She never slowed, she never turned around toward him, she never let him take the lead. How she moved so quickly in the snow would have been a thing of beauty if Ezra were in a generous mood. (He was not.) Middleton’s campus was a roll of hills with grayscale buildings springing up in various spots as if they were old English manors. Ivy crept up some of the facades; others were bestowed with jewel-toned windows. A few were adorned with scaffolding, awaiting a makeover. The blanket of white made the whole landscape appear a bit like a fairy tale. How Frankie remembered which footpath led to the next, he couldn’t say. But she had always flown on intuition: there were moments when this was his very favorite thing about her. There were also moments when he knew it could be the death of them both.

Frankie turned down a narrow opening not visible from the street, and he followed, panting, like a parent chasing a runaway toddler.

Ezra finally stopped, a cramp building in his side, and slapped a hand against the back of whatever building they were behind. He wheezed and tried to catch his breath and felt the residue from the pepper spray deep in his lungs. He didn’t want to panic; he told himself not to panic. He used to be able to tell when these anxiety attacks were incoming: like a spider creeping up the back of his neck, like a surge of toxins infecting his bloodstream. But now, until today at least, it had been so long since his last one that he couldn’t trust himself, couldn’t trust those warning signs anymore. He breathed in and out, like he had done with Frankie on the floor of the coffee shop. He told himself, even though he knew it was untrue, it was akin to the rush of adrenaline he got while playing cards, and that he should just ride the wave.