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My bare feet hit the floor and I rub my eyes as I swing open the door into the common room, my vision blurry from sleep. I bump into my desk before finding my way to the baby-blue mini fridge. Sarah had surprised me with it last week when we moved in. She had already filled it with our favorites--cans of Diet Coke, little glass pots of French yogurts, single servings of hummus and guacamole. Students aren’t supposed to have their own appliances in the dorms, but Sarah shrugged when I brought up the rule. “No one stopped me.” She smiled and began explaining the color-coded labels she made to keep the groceries organized. I swing the door open and reach inside for a plastic cup of iced coffee, saved from yesterday’s outing into town. It’s watery and too sweet. But it’ll do until I get to the dining hall. I knock on Sarah’s door. “Sar? You up?” No one answers. “Cool silent treatment, but can we talk about last night?” I take a sip from the straw, then another, everything around me a little fuzzy. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark, but sun peeks through the corners. The digital clock below our TV flashes 8:00. I pad back into my room and fumble as I call Sarah. The line goes straight to voicemail. Her recorded message rings in my ear and my shoulders tense. She ran a six-foot extension cord from the outlet near her door to make sure she could charge her phone right next to her bed while she slept, said she’d rather die than wake up with less than 20 percent battery. “Sarah?” I call again, stepping into the common space. That’s when I notice it. The stench. The rotten smell of iron. Pungent and everywhere, lodged in my throat. My nostrils. My stomach. My heart pounds as I dial Sarah again, wait for a ring that doesn’t come. “I can’t come to the phone right now . . .” her voice bleats in my ear. Suddenly I’m lightheaded, like I can barely breathe. Because once the rest of the room comes into focus, I realize it’s not only the odor that’s odd....
About the author
Jessica Goodman
