Just One Night: Mallory
Eight-fifteen. I sat at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen reflecting in the glass of the framed “Academic Excellence” certificate that hung on the wall. The cursor on my internship application essay blinked steadily. The propulsion systems of the mid-range ballistic— I deleted the line. My brain was no longer capable of calculating thrust or drag. It was currently preoccupied with a different kind of physics: the exact distance between Jay’s house and Tiffany’s apartment, and the estimated time it would take for them to arrive at the Point. I looked at my phone. It was face-down on the duvet of my perfectly made bed. Jay wouldn’t text. He couldn’t. Any digital trail was a liability, and we had agreed on radio silence for the night. This was a tactical maneuver; it required total
- Writer
