They say a wounded animal is the most dangerous kind, likely to lash out and harm even those who try to help it. I know this, but it doesn't stop me from tearing into Hazel when, the following morning, he attempts to reason with me through the door.

"Charlie, come on," he pleads. "Just tell me what happened. We can work this out. I'm sure it's not as bad as—"

I cut him off with a laugh—the sort of slightly hysterical, angry laugh that makes people stop and check for danger.

"You're right. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. It's worse. My dad disowned me. I have fifty-two dollars and thirteen cents to my name. I don't have a job. In a few weeks, I won't have a place to live. I can't pay my tuition for next term. I am royally screwed."

"Charlie—"

"And guess what, Hazel?" I say, cutting him off again. "It's all your fault. You, and your stupid videos. I wish I'd never met you, and I never want to see your stupid face again. Think we can work through that? Because I sure as hell don't."

He doesn't answer. I retreat to my room and slam my door for good measure, so if he does say something, he knows I won't hear it. Deafened by my earphones, I lie on my bed and shut my eyes—shut out everything—until my emotions calm and the need to pee finally outweighs my petulance.

When I get up, I see two hours have passed. I half expect Hazel to still be waiting outside the door, like a scolded dog hoping to be forgiven and let back inside, but a peek into the hallway proves me wrong.

He and his things are gone.

With a weird mix of relief and disappointment, I shut the door again and get on with the business of figuring out what to do next.

🐚

The holiday weekend passes in a haze. Classes resume the following Monday, and I attend as usual. A large percentage of my classmates look about as frazzled as I feel, worn out from travel and time spent at large family gatherings, so my own haggard appearance goes un-remarked-upon. With final exams on the horizon, I only blend in better day by day.

In the meantime, I see and hear nothing of Hazel, which is both a relief and a source of pain; I don't want to see or hear from him, but at the same time, I thought he'd fight a little harder for what we had.

Lana checks in with me from time to time, but aside from a white lie—that I'm too busy with exams to date at the moment—I don't tell her why Hazel's not around. Not long ago, she'd have taken one look at me and dragged the whole story out of me in under ten minutes, but with her boyfriend occupying 90% of her attention and her classes most of the rest, she takes me at my word when I tell her I'm alright.

Thus, with no one to draw me out of it, I retreat into my shell and stay there.

I do some 'desperate measures' math and discover I'm not in dire straits just yet. My dad's many harsh lessons in frugality have paid off. Between the remainder of my allowance and my cafeteria meal card, I won't starve—at least for the next few weeks—and my rent is paid through the end of the semester. After that, nothing is certain. The future looms before me like a blank sheet of paper, without even lines as a guide, so I focus on the things I can control: doing the best I can on my exams, and finishing as much work on my dissertation as possible while I still have access to university resources.

"This is fantastic, Charlie," my new faculty advisor, Dr. Gheren, gushes as she looks over my draft during our final meeting of the term. "Most students don't even get an outline done before they're in their last semester."

This probably is my last semester, but I don't tell her that.

"You're not pushing yourself too hard, are you?" she asks, when I fail to make an appropriately timely reply. "Your studies are important, but your health is important, too."

For a moment I waver—I even open my mouth, on the verge of spilling all my woes in the unsuspecting woman's lap—but then I pull back like someone on the end of a diving board who chickens out before taking the plunge.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Just tired from studying."

She smiles sympathetically. "When's your last exam?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good. Then make sure you have a nice long rest over winter break. You've earned it."

"Thanks," I mumble as I shove my notebooks in my backpack and zip it closed. I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not really grateful to be reminded of my impending homelessness.

Typically, I go back to my parents' house over the Christmas holiday, but somehow I doubt the journey would be worth the bus fare, this year. The thought gives me a spark of hope, though.

My mom and I aren't exactly close—she seemed to believe that a son is a father's purview, and had taken little interest in me once I was old enough to walk and eat on my own. Sometimes she looked up from her fashion magazine or her phone long enough to notice me, but that's about it. As long as I was fed, clothed, and alive, she considered her duty complete. I think she would have liked a daughter, but she was equally glad she gave my dad a boy on the first go. Still, she's my mom, and on some level, I believe she loves me. When my dad wasn't around—when he was off on business trips or away at work—we almost had a healthy relationship.

Maybe—just maybe—if I can talk to her, she can reason with him.

Outside my faculty advisor's office, I sit on a bench, warmed by the early December sun, and pull out my phone. After a brief hesitation, I call my mom.

I expect her not to answer—she likes to let calls go to voicemail and then take her time getting back, so people know how 'busy' she is. What I don't expect is the automated voice that tells me, apologetically, that 'this number is no longer in service.'

It takes me a minute or so to work out what this means, but the answer comes to me at last. My dad canceled the phone plan, because it was a 'family plan,' and I was on it. He and my mom probably have brand new phones with brand new numbers now, and the only reason mine is still working is because the current billing cycle hasn't ended yet.

Whatever false hope I'd been entertaining withers like a neglected houseplant and dies within me. He could have kept the numbers, I think to myself, as my vision blurs with tears. Even if he kicked me off the plan, he could have kept...

But he hadn't.

Somehow this one, small fact hits me harder than anything has yet. It makes the pain more real, sharper and more vicious, cutting through whatever thin defensive denials I'd entertained to protect myself from the truth and laying it bare. At the same time, I feel oddly numb, and sit for a long time on the bench, staring at my phone with a bland expression as tears splash the screen, drop by drop.

People walk by, laughing and talking. Some of them notice me and giggle or whisper something about getting dumped.

They're not wrong. Getting dumped hurts; getting dumped by your parents hurts worse.

🐚

The last day of term, a relief for most, is for me a source of dread. Time creeps along, dragging me second by second towards the edge of the abyss. Somehow, I pass my last exam, though I have little memory of taking it, and with that done I have three days left to find somewhere to live.

My landlady, Betty Lind, is sweet and kind. I'm almost positive that if I explained my situation to her, she would let me stay, rent free, at least through the winter holidays. But, when I arrive at the little house that afternoon and she waves at me from amidst her roses, wielding a pair of pruning shears and wearing an enormous straw hat, I discover that I'm too ashamed to tell the truth.

"Charlie!" she calls, her reedy voice reminding me of an old china teacup full of tiny cracks. "I hate to bother you with this, but I'm afraid your father hasn't renewed your lease yet. Would you be a dear and remind him it's due?"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lind," I say, telling the first lie that comes to mind. "I found another place with a friend. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

She purses her lips, making her bright pink lipstick gather in the lines, and places a gloved hand on my arm. "Oh dear! I'm sorry to hear that. I've adored having you as a tenant. You're always so quiet and polite! Not like most young people these days. Are you staying with that young man—what was his name... Hayden, wasn't it?"

"Hazel."

"That's right—Hazel. He was lovely as well. Shame; I really thought I'd have the two of you through graduation. This is your senior year, isn't it?"

"It is, yes."

"Your parents must be very proud." She smiles warmly, deep creases appearing around her rheumy blue eyes. "When will you be leaving?"

"Um... I don't... I thought the lease expires next week."

"Well, I won't throw you out on the dot!" She laughs. "You take your time. I'll start going through the wait list tomorrow, but I doubt I'll get a taker before the start of next term."

"There's a wait list?" I ask.

"Oh, yes." She waves an arthritic hand. "There always is, for student housing. You just let me know if you want help packing up."

Thanking her, I go inside and shut myself into the little apartment I've called home for the last three and a half years.

A wait list, I think, sitting heavily on the squishy old couch. There was probably a wait list for the imaginary apartment I'm moving into with my imaginary friend, too.

Leaning my head back on the cushions, I laugh under my breath and shut my eyes, too tired to feel anything but empty and numb.

A knock on the door rouses me, and I sit up. My phone tells me an hour has passed. Groggily, I answer the summons and find MacDowell on the other side—not Hazel, but his father.

Robert MacDowell is dressed more casually than I've seen him before, apart from in the field, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned shirt over a cotton tee.

"Professor?" I blink up at him. He has a good six inches on me. "Am I... dreaming this?"

He frowns, taking in my haggard, unkempt appearance. "Not unless Poe is right, and 'all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.' Can I come in?"

I rub my hands over my face, trying to clear my head. "Hazel told you, didn't he?"

MacDowell shifts his weight. There's something decidedly unhappy in the set of his mouth and the furrow between his brows, and while I'm fairly certain I'm not the source of it, I still find myself shrinking away.

"No, he didn't," he says. "Hazel's gone. I was hoping you could tell me why."