Ava is just about to cut the wire to the bomb when the alarm sirens start to blare. For one terrifying second, she thinks she’s too late: the bomb has detonated, destroying the whole city.
It takes her a few moments to realize that no, the city is fine, she is not a masked superhero capable of bending steel with her bare hands, and this is a dream.
Even though the cacophonous blare of the siren is most definitely real.
“Fire alarm,” she groans to no one in particular, twisting around in her bed. They’d tested the next dorm over last week, so Ava really should have been expecting this, but she was kind of hoping they wouldn’t schedule her building’s test for—she checks her phone—two thirty-three in the morning. That’s just rude.
She stumbles out of bed, dreary with sleep, and shoves on her shower flip flops because the thought of lacing up real shoes is too exhausting. She practically sleepwalks down two flights of stairs, and it’s not until she opens the door and the cold air smacks her in the face that she remembers: it’s January in New Jersey.
“Shit,” she says, staring at the growing crowd of students pouring into the parking lot, all of them wearing boots. Also coats. “Shit.”
There’s nothing she can do at this point—the alarm is still blaring from inside the stairwell—so she takes a deep breath, crosses her arms, and steps out into the cold.
At first, it’s not so bad. Theoretically, she’d be okay without a full-on winter coat. The problem really comes down to the fact that Ava likes to sleep beneath like four blankets, and given that her blanket cocoon is very warm, her typical pajamas are a T-shirt and shorts. Sometimes minus the shorts. (God, she’s glad this was not a minus-the-shorts day.)
“Ava!” someone calls. She turns, squinting against the streetlamp, and sees her friend Brody in the far corner of the lot, waving her over. He grins as she approaches, entirely too sunny for someone who’s been forced to stand outside after midnight in the freezing cold.
Brody’s not-quite-boyfriend Christopher from up on the fifth floor is standing beside him scowling something fierce, which Ava appreciates. This moment calls for grumpiness. Next to Christopher is a thin guy with hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pea coat whose face would probably ring a bell if it weren’t such an ungodly hour.
“Hey guys,” Ava grumbles, shuffling over. “Having a fun night?”
“We were,” Christopher nearly growls.
Ava looks from him to Brody, who—she is just now remembering—scored a high enough housing lottery number last year that he should be tucked away in his cozy one-bedroom halfway across campus.
“Brody.” She grins. “You don’t live here.”
“You’re not wearing pants,” Brody replies. She blinks, and Brody smiles. “I thought we were just stating facts.”
“Why aren’t you wearing pants?” Christopher asks her.
