The baby bird has been evicted from our dorm.

It sounds more dramatic of a process than it really is; simply put, pets of any kind—even rescue animals by a good Samaritan and future veterinarian/zoologist such as Colby—are not allowed. The R.A. finds out about it through the grapevine and acts like she’s doing us some huge favor by not writing us up.

As we walk the shoebox over to the biology labs, Colby mutters complaints. “This school sucks so much sometimes. You know? Like, aren’t we adults? We can’t be trusted with pets? And it’s not even a pet, I’m just helping it survive!”

I nod along, shivering as the breeze kicks up leaves around us. Truth is, just a few weeks ago—before I met Teague—I would’ve said the same thing, just about different stuff. Like roll call, or the dorms’ no-candles rule. Now, none of that stuff really bothers me. I like this place.

Or at least, the little house over on Ridge Road, and an office at the far corner of the art building. They make the spaces in between well worth the trouble.

“Professor Parker will take good care of him,” I offer, shielding my eyes from the sun. It’s almost October, but today has the brightness of summer mixed in with the wind of autumn. “She’s got better equipment, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Colby sighs. “I guess you’re right.”

In the Center (real name: The Fritz Edwards Wilder Center for Scientific Study, hence the shortening), I wait outside Professor Parker’s office while Colby explains. Parker was our teacher for Bio last year, but I don’t feel like I know her well enough to join the conversation.

“Let’s get this little guy to the incubator,” I hear her say, and then they’re both out in the hallway, sweeping me along. Professor Parker asks how my summer went, how my classes are going now.

“Good,” I answer to both questions. We don’t have to force too much chitchat, thankfully, because Colby starts rattling off the bird’s stats like she’s pitching him to a baseball scout.

The lab smells like old, wet books and fertilizer. I see a row of incubators along one all, most occupied. There’s a baby monitor lizard in the biggest one, which Colby finds fascinating but I find scary as shit. It’s already the size of a cat and needs a padlock on its cage.

We set the baby bird up in a small one and carry it to another lab, I guess so the lizards and iguanas won’t be tempted to shatter their tanks and eat it. He pecks at a bowl of water and goes to sleep right away.

“A good sign,” Professor Parker says. “It means he’s comfortable here.”

This makes Colby relax. She thanks Professor Parker for taking time to help.

“My pleasure,” she smiles. “I’m never too busy to help a future scientist.” Colby is the little darling of the Biology department; I think every teacher in it is upset she won’t become a professor, like them. Parker gives me a polite smile and asks what I’m thinking of majoring in.

“Um...I’m not sure,” I say. Then, surprising everyone—including myself—I blurt, “I’m thinking about Art History.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding, “with Dr. Williamson?”

“Te— Professor West,” I correct, her and myself. I pray neither one notices the blush in my cheeks, spreading all the way out to my ears.

“He’s new to the school, isn’t he?” she asks.

“I think so. I mean, I...wouldn’t know.”

Colby thinks a minute. “He’s the one we ran into a few weeks ago, right? On our way to breakfast?”

I nod. Colby smiles and fake-wilts, fanning herself.

“He’s so cute,” she laughs. “If I had a teacher like that, I’d probably be majoring in art, too.”

Professor Parker shakes her head, chuckling. “He is cute,” she agrees, walking past us to grab a container of something—I realize too late that they’re nightcrawlers—from a fridge in the corner. She mashes one up in the baby bird’s dish, while Colby adds water with a dropper.

“Not sure why he moved here,” Professor Parker goes on, “but I know it must be difficult, living so far from his wife.”

I look at her so fast, my neck hurts. “What?”

“Oh, his wife lives in Tennessee,” she says, stepping back with Colby. The two are so focused on the bird, tentatively approaching his dish, that they don’t notice my breathing as it speeds up. The paleness radiating through my face, wiping out any trace of blush, like bleach under the skin.

“Um...excuse me, a sec,” I tell them, and they still don’t notice, even as I back out of the room and let autopilot lead me downstairs, through the winding antiseptic halls, and out the doors.

Then, I run.

I text Breton again that night. I’ve sent four variations of “hello” and “where are you” in the last hour, each one preceded with at least ten minutes of hesitation. I don’t want to sound needy, after all.

Still, I’m worried. And this, I realize, is the fatal flaw of no-strings relationships: there are always strings.

In this stage of a normal relationship, it would be perfectly acceptable, even expected, for me to drive by her place to check on her and make sure she’s okay. But this isn’t a normal relationship, and there’s no plausible excuse for me to skulk around the dormitories this time of night, or at all.

So I wait, helpless.

It’s one thing to give someone your control. In doing so, you’ve made a choice, and every choice has some kind of power in it.

It’s another thing entirely, though, to find yourself without any control just like that, without you getting a say. Like guiding a ship, only to have the wheel break off the helm. Or walking through a house you don’t know, and the power goes out, plunging you into darkness.

Or sitting on your couch with a gift in your lap, imagining the worst, realizing you must love someone if you’re worried for them. Waiting as the light fades and no one answers.

I do something I haven’t done in weeks, haven’t needed to: I reach under my shirt and touch the ring I keep there, tucked away from the world on a leather string. I trace its shape and think about fear.

Because, more than anything else, it’s scary to lose control. Or to realize, maybe, you never had any to begin with.