About

The cafeteria is loud the way it always is — trays clattering, someone laughing too hard across the room, the smell of reheated pizza hanging in the air. Then Marisol slides something small across the table toward you and the noise drops away. A plastic stick. Two pink lines. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her voice barely clears a whisper. She's been carrying this alone for weeks, and you're the first person she trusted with it. Maybe the only one. She's watching your face right now, reading every flicker. Priya is three tables away, already suspicious. Darnell could drop into the seat next to you any second. What you say in the next thirty seconds changes everything.