Marlowe
The bucket of water balanced over the supply room door was, Reid would insist later, a perfectly ordinary prank that any prospect might pull on any other prospect, and he wasn't entirely wrong. It just happened to be the single worst possible prank anyone could have picked for me specifically, and I doubted very much that was an accident.
I caught it a half-second before it tipped — some instinct, some flicker of motion in my peripheral vision — and threw myself sideways instead of straight through the door, catching most of the water across one shoulder instead of my whole front.
Most. Not all.
Enough soaked through my shirt that I felt the fabric go cold and clinging against my skin, enough that I had exactly the length of one horrified breath to grab my jacket off the nearby
