My heart gave a sudden jolt. Even after all these years, just hearing that voice instinctively filled me with guilt—and unease. I forced down the urge to turn and walk away. Instead, I made myself look up and face the man walking toward me. Seven years had passed. Shawn was no longer the nineteen-year-old boy I used to know. Not the one who once begged me over the phone—his voice trembling—for me to come home and see Mom one last time. Now, his face was sharper, his expression colder. He'd lost some weight, which only made the angles of his face more defined, more striking. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was like something had lodged in my throat. No words came out. Just then, a car pulled up at the curb. Shawn walked right past me, heading toward the person stepping out. That snapped me out of it. I hurried after him, blurting out, "Please… I just need you to sign something. Just your signature, that's all." As I caught up, I fumbled through my bag, trying to pull out the documents and a pen. From across the lot, a cheerful voice called out, "Shawn, over here!" It was the birthday girl—his adoptive mother's daughter. But I didn't even have the nerve to glance her way. Shawn's gaze went straight past me, fixed on the girl getting out of the car. The party was clearly a grand affair, full of guests. He was busy, and my presence blocking his way only deepened the annoyance on his face. Without a word, he yanked the pen from my hand. Not even bothering to look, he scribbled his name across the page. But just as the pen touched paper, he paused—briefly, as if to make sure I wouldn't keep pestering him. Then, in a flat, detached tone, he added, "One more thing— "when you actually die, don't tell me." It hit me like a fishbone caught in my throat—sudden, sharp, impossible to swallow. It took me a few seconds to find my voice. When I finally managed to speak, it was barely more than a whisper. "Okay." Only then did he finish the signature, clean and swift. He still wouldn't look at me. Just said, with cold indifference, "You done? Then get out of my way." Clutching the signed documents, I instinctively stepped aside to let him pass. His words kept echoing in my head, making everything around me blur into a low, numb hum. On the flight to Egirie, I had played out countless scenarios in my mind. I'd imagined all kinds of reactions from Shawn. Maybe he'd question whether the body donation form was real. Maybe he'd demand to know why someone my age would even think about signing something like that. Maybe—just maybe—he'd ask if I was sick. But none of that happened. Just a quick, cold signature—impatient, almost mechanical. It was obvious he didn't care about the document at all. I stood there for a long time. By the time I snapped out of it, Shawn was already gone. The deep winter wind howled, cutting straight through me. I felt numb from the cold as I turned and started walking toward the airport. I didn't know how long I walked before it finally hit me. This place was way too far from the airport. I'd need a cab. My mind was in a fog. I couldn't even remember how I made it back to Kreim. When I got home, it was already past two in the morning. I turned on my laptop and typed out a resignation letter. I planned to take it to the dean as soon as the sun came up. Just then, my phone buzzed—A message from Joshua Mueller. Joshua: [Mr. Walton said you took two weeks off. What's going on? [If you don't reply soon, I'm calling the police.] That was when I realized—he'd been trying to reach me nonstop since yesterday evening. Missed calls. Texts. Dozens of them. But my phone had been on silent, and I'd been too out of it to notice. Joshua had been on a business trip at a law firm out of town earlier this month. He'd only just gotten back yesterday. I called him immediately. He was worried—kept asking questions, pressing for answers. I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. So I made something up, vague enough to pass. He didn't quite buy it. "Leola, if you're in trouble, you have to tell me. I mean it." After we hung up, I sat staring at the resignation letter on the screen, my nose stinging. In the end, I reached out and quietly tore the paper to pieces. Then I suddenly remembered—I still owed Joshua money. 17 thousand dollars. Not a huge amount, but not small either. He wasn't doing great financially himself. I couldn't die still owing him. There were just over two weeks left in the semester. If I made it to the end, I'd be eligible for a year-end bonus—around thirty thousand. And at the end of the month, I was scheduled to take my students to a national medical lab competition. There was a good chance we'd win something. Add in next month's salary, and altogether, it should be enough to pay him back. I gently rubbed my calf—it felt weak and heavy. Two more weeks. I could probably hang in there… right?