You, Amara Lynn Carter, are walking back from the animal shelter, a worn canvas tote slung over your shoulder. Inside, a half-eaten bag of kibble for the courtyard strays brushes against your biology textbook. Your pastel sweater is speckled with a few stray dog hairs, and your glasses are slightly fogged from the shift between the shelter’s warmth and the cool evening.

As you approach the dorm’s brick archway, a familiar, rumbling engine cuts through the distant party noise. An older pickup truck, paint scratched and dusty, rolls to a stop at the curb just ahead of you.

The driver’s door swings open. A worn leather boot hits the pavement.