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Grayson: How did it go?

Reagan: Everything’s fine.

Grayson: Are you sure? I came by last night to check on you. You didn’t answer.

Reagan: I’m doing what you asked me to.

There’s a pause, the blinking gray dots of him typing and maybe deleting. Determining what to say…

Grayson: Stay safe.

I stare at the words. If he wanted me to stay safe, he wouldn’t have asked me to do this. The risk was too high. He knew it more than anyone.

Reagan: I’ll try.

I could—should—tell him about Miller busting me, but I have no doubt Miller would expose me. I can’t risk it. I shove the phone under my pillow and crash. I dream of crowded hallways and shiny skirts. Black lace thongs and toilet bowls. Wicked grins and devil horns. The blast of a vibration under my pillow jolts me awake. I read the text bleary eyed.

Pledge Educator:Come to the house. Dress in semi-formal attire. Pack minimally, but for the week. Bring a sleeping bag and a backpack with your laptop, textbooks, and any other required schoolwork. Wait outside your residence. You have thirty minutes.

Turning on the bedside light, I look over at the supplies Grayson sent to my room. It’s all of those things, including the sleeping bag and an extra backpack. He knew this was coming and didn’t warn me.

All I want is to turn off the lights and pull the blanket over my head, but if I do, the world will know about Theodore Hart and the embarrassing way I got busted. Royer and Andrea will know, and neither of them will ever suffer a consequence for their shitty behavior.

Resigned, I hop out of bed and do the only thing I can: pack.

They jump me the second I walk out of the dorm, coming out of the dark. Hood thrown over my head, arms and legs hoisted off the ground. My high-pitched yelp is smothered by the fabric. I should be afraid, and I am, but it’s not about being kidnapped. I’ve heard the horror stories about hell week and kind of expected it. No, I’m terrified and praying no one notices my boobs or the fact there’s no junk between my legs as they carry me off.

“Keep your mouth shut and hood on,” is all that is said after they toss me in the back of a vehicle. I land on another body; warm and bony. He grunts when my elbow slams into his gut.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Shut the fuck up or we’ll make a detour!”

I clamp my mouth closed and try not to notice how little air is coming through the hood.

The vehicle drives erratically, on purpose, flinging our bodies across the back of what I assume is a van. Loud music spills from the front and if the drivers are speaking, I can’t hear them. It’s not just the music. My heart pounds, heavy and loud, pulsing in my ears. This is really happening. There’s no going back.

There’s another stop. Another pledge is tossed in the back. This one lands on my leg, forcing it into an awkward position. Tears burn at my eyes and my nose stuffs up, making my efforts to breathe worse.Get your shit together,Reagan, I tell myself. The consequences are too big for me to fuck up anything, including suffocating.

I close my eyes and think about something else—anything. Last summer at the lake. Royer waving from the water as he expertly skied around the cove. Miller’s sitting in the back of the boat, sprawled out in the sun. The V dipping below his shorts. The taste of salt on my tongue.

No!

My heart hammers harder than before. The vehicle screeches to a stop, tossing all of us forward, and freeing my leg from under the other pledge.

The music stops. The doors open. Hands grab me and drag me out, dropping me on the ground.

“Get the fuck up, asswipe.”

I scramble to my feet, hearing the sounds of the others next to me. There are more vehicles pulling up. More orders are barked until I hear the shuffling footsteps of dozens of pledges.

Just when I think I may pass out from the heat and nausea and lack of air, the hood is yanked off my head. A rush of cool air hits my face and I gulp, taking in as much as I can. All around me are other pledges with sweaty hair matted to their foreheads, eyes wide and panicked. Lights shine from a building in front of us. Although it’s clearly a large house, it’s not the Zeta Sig house. Theirs is a mansion—this… it looks like a farmhouse. Grayson told me one work around Royer would employ is to have initiation off campus, at an undisclosed location.

Before I can worry about it more, my belongings are tossed at me, slamming hard into my chest.

“Welcome to Education Week!” A voice blasts through a bullhorn. He walks into the glare of the light shining from the building. I don’t need to see his face to know who it is. Knox’s six foot plus frame gives him away. “That’s the name the Council wants you to call it, but that’s bullshit and we all know it. Fraternities have initiation week, or what most of them call Hell Week. Not at Zeta Sig. We don’t just drag you through hell. We put you through the gauntlet.”