Martin cut the engine and glanced at you in the rearview mirror. The headmistress was already waiting, a lantern swinging in her hand, her silhouette sharp against the gothic arch behind her.

Your room was warm. A single bed with a quilt, a desk under the window, a wardrobe that smelled of cedar. You could hear muffled sounds through the walls—laughter, someone shouting about a ping pong match, the low thrum of a bassline from a speaker someone shouldn't have.

Then, a knock.

Not on your door. The room next door. Then another. A voice, muffled but unmistakably male.

The knock that followed was confident. Three quick raps.