The next two days blur into one long, tense stretch of research, planning, and paranoia. Every time I step outside, I feel like eyes are on me—watching, waiting. I don't know if the feeling is real or just the stress getting to me, but the blocked-number messages keep coming in just occasionally enough to remind me they're there. The messages are vague, just little reminders that Grunge is still there, lurking in the shadows.

Don't forget, Romilly.

I try to shove the dread aside, throwing myself into the campaign. I manage to put together an outline for my school board presentation and some designs for flyers. They're the best I could make, and I worry if that'll be enough, but I tell myself it's really the message that matters. Every step forward feels like I'm buying Ptolemy another minute, another chance. I still have no idea how I'm going to get $50,000, but I can't focus on that yet.

One thing at a time.

The day of the Student Union meeting arrives without incident from Grunge. I spent most of the night refining my plan, going over my speech in my head until the words blurred together. Now, standing outside the meeting room, my stomach churns with nerves. It's one thing to scribble out ideas in a notebook—it's another to stand in front of people and convince them to care.

I take a deep breath and push the door open. The meeting is already in full swing, students scattered around tables, chatting and checking their phones. A few look up as I enter, but most don't pay me any mind, I think. I spot Dr. Gilbert near the front, talking to one of the TAs. She gives me an encouraging nod when she sees me, which helps—at least a little.

The president of the Student Union, a senior named Kevin, stands at the front of the room, going over upcoming events and general business. I hover by the door for a few minutes, waiting for my turn. My heart pounds louder with each second, the weight of what I'm about to do pressing down on me.

"Next up, we have Romilly, who has something she'd like to present," Kevin announces, motioning for me to step forward and take over the microphone.

I force a smile and move to the front of the room, clutching my notes like a lifeline. The room quiets down as I stand in front of them, and for a moment, I can feel every pair of eyes on me. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Uh, hey everyone," I start, my voice wavering. "I... I wanted to talk to you about an issue I've been researching—something I think we all should care about."

I pause, glancing down at my notes. My hands are shaking, but I push through.

"As some of you might know, there's been a growing movement to allow public schools to opt out of teaching the Theory of Evolution to certain students—specifically, Christian students." I look up, scanning the room. "This isn't just about religion versus science. This is about censorship. It's about students being denied the right to learn about the world around them, to explore scientific facts."

There's a murmur of agreement from a few students. Others just watch me, waiting.

"I'm proposing a campaign—something we can all get behind. For now, I'm calling it 'Protesting Ptolemy'—named after Claudius Ptolemy, the astronomer who first proposed the geocentric model of the universe. Just like his outdated ideas were eventually disproven, we need to challenge outdated thinking in our education system. We need to fight for students' rights to learn real science."

I can feel my confidence building as I speak, the words flowing more naturally. I lay out the basics of the campaign—flyers, social media posts, a petition to present at the next school board meeting. As I explain, I see nods of approval from some of the students. A few even start whispering excitedly to each other.

When I finish, there's a brief pause before Kevin speaks up.

"Thanks, Romilly. That sounds like a really important cause. I'm sure a lot of us would be willing to help you get this off the ground. Does anyone have any questions or suggestions?"

A few hands shoot up, and I field some questions about logistics—how we'll spread the word, what our timeline looks like, who we need to contact for support. The meeting shifts into a brainstorming session, and soon enough, we've got a small team of students eager to help. I'm even able to secure a date for a Student Union-sponsored event, where we'll raise awareness and hopefully gain more signatures for the petition.

For the first time in days, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe this can actually work.

After the meeting wraps up, Dr. Gilbert pulls me aside.

"You did great, Romilly," she says with a proud smile. "I think this could really take off. Let me know if you need any help refining the grant proposal—I'm happy to take a look at it."

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," I reply, feeling the weight of her support.

As I head out of the meeting, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting another message from a classmate, but my stomach drops when I see it's from the blocked number again.

Making friends, Romilly? That's cute.

My breath catches in my throat. They're watching. Even here, surrounded by people, I'm not safe.

I glance around, but no one is looking at me. The students are too busy chatting or packing up their things to notice the fear creeping up my spine. The next message quickly follows.

Time's running out. Tick tock.

I shove my phone back into my pocket, my hands trembling. The brief moment of hope I'd felt during the meeting is gone, replaced by a crushing sense of dread. No matter how much progress I make, Grunge is always there, lurking in the background, reminding me that I'm running out of time.

Twenty-seven days left. And I'm still no closer to saving Ptolemy.

*****

That night, I can't sleep. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. I keep going over the plan in my head—what I need to do, who I need to contact, how I'm going to raise the money. But no matter how hard I try to focus on the campaign, the fear won't go away.

They're watching me.

The thought plays over and over in my mind, an endless loop of anxiety. Every time my phone buzzes, I jump, half-expecting another taunting message from Grunge. Finally, I give up on sleep and pull out my laptop, opening the folder where I've saved all the information I've gathered so far. I start digging, researching everything I can about the local school board, the people on it, and the influence they have. But the deeper I dig, the more I start to wonder—could Grunge have their hands in this too? Could this be bigger than I thought?

The thought makes my stomach turn. If they're involved in the school board or the education system, this campaign could be putting me—and everyone else involved—at even greater risk. But I can't stop now. I'm in too deep.

I glance at the clock. It's past midnight, and I've got class in the morning. But I can't stop. I need answers. I need to know who's really behind this, who's pulling the strings.

I keep digging, clicking through article after article, searching for anything that might give me a clue. And then I find it—a name. Charles Hepworth. One of the board members, someone with connections to shady financial dealings. Someone who might have more power than I realized. Thinking hard now, I lean back in my desk chair, my heart pounding.

This is bigger than I thought.

And I have no idea who I can trust anymore.