“That’s okay,” Ruthie said. “That’s what you’re here for. To find your purpose.”

It was then I decided I wanted to be whatever Ruthie wanted. Following her to New York City would be my purpose. I would mold myself to fit whatever shape of a roommate she’d etched into her vision board all those months ago. I would become just like her.

I heard the hallway fire door open, then close with a dramatic and unsatisfied huff and we both rolled over, knowing better than to whisper anymore. A few soft footsteps dully echoed in the hall from the entrance all the way down to the other end. Then, just outside our door, two Mary Janes fractured the light like knives. Standing, unmoving, listening in just as I was listening out.

I felt watched. I held my breath. Even as I knew no one could penetrate these concrete walls, it still felt like they could. Like Ruthie’s earlier curse violation, and my violation of not reporting her violation, were somehow notched on the outside of our door in a symbol only the RAs could decipher. Look out for these two, it would read. They’re trouble.

Just as the shadow moved away, and I heard the hallway door whisper closed, I rolled to face the window, looking out on the woods behind campus. It was black and quiet. Not even the trees made a sound.

Until, through the darkness, I heard it: a tinny ping so faint, at first I thought I made it up. That I was inventing sounds of home to lull myself to sleep. On a farm with brothers, you were never that far away from a gunshot. They’d set up an entire shooting range in the back corner of the property, with targets painted onto bales of hay and, once they got more advanced, old cans hanging from wrangled tree branches.

The soft ping rang out again.

Then again.

Then, finally, silence.

THREE

I work in an office of all women. Twenty-two of them. From the cofounders—Brittany and Ashleigh, who as college roommates decided on a whim with Daddy’s money that their sophomoric passion for PR bested their inexperience and warranted them being their own bosses—to Kiley, our sprightly office assistant who graduated from Stanford five months ago with that illusive degree in communications. As Women in the Workplace or whatever, I’m supposed to think it’s incredible; that the Brit & Ash Agency has been built from nothing and is now changing the game for women in communications everywhere. Really, it’s barely more than two unprofessional bullshitters with perfect bodies and big tits convincing old men to trust their vague “public relations needs” with us. Because what looks better for your boring business than a bunch of hot young women parading it around as important.

The whole thing is ridiculous.