The Wrong Door
The quad at Ashford University unfurls like a postcard nobody thought to touch up—red brick buildings mellowed by ivy, a fountain throwing prisms of light into the August air, students crisscrossing the paths with the loose, unhurried gait of people who believe the next four years belong entirely to them. Jordan stands at the edge of it all, gripping the handle of her suitcase, and lets herself believe, just for a moment, that she is one of them.
The wheels catch on a seam in the pavement and she jerks the bag forward, adjusting the strap of her backpack where it digs into her shoulder. Sweat gathers at the base of her spine despite the breeze. She has rehearsed this moment for months—pictured herself walking across this exact stretch of stone with her chin lifted, her stride even, a girl among girls, indistinguishable from any other freshman hauling her life in two suitcases and a duffel bag. That was the plan. Blend in. Begin.
But blending has never come easily to her, and she feels the first crack in the plan before she even reaches the dormitory steps.
A cluster of girls near the fountain goes quiet as she passes. Not dramatically—no gasps, no pointing—just a subtle hitch…
