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And she sent another string of angry-sad emojis after that.

After that, I texted Darius.

I don’t suppose you’re getting death threats today?

And then the unexpected happened. He called and I picked up. “Hello?”

“Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice made me melt a little. “Yeah, so far.”

“When’d it start?”

“Last night. And then again this morning, and most of the day.”

“Jesus, Jessica—have you told anyone?”

“No.”

“Are you doing anything about it?”

“Other than hoping it’ll stop? No.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“While I appreciate the concern, I’d do it in a heartbeat if I thought it would stop things,” I said. “I just don’t think it will.” Between texts from unknown numbers and the anonymity of ZB—if I started fighting back, I didn’t know when it would end—or if it would. At least this way I could pretend it wasn’t working and not give them the satisfaction of my ire.

He was quiet on the far side of the line. “What’re you thinking?” I asked him.

“About how pissed I am that this is happening to you.”

“Heh. Me too.” Another petal on the tight bloom that lived inside my chest loosened, unfurling out to him. “What’re you doing tomorrow?”

“I have some business calls to make. You?”

“Wearing black to properly mourn the travesty of prom, at least according to my mother, who’s told me I have two proms left to go at least thirty times.”

He laughed and the sound made me smile for the first time that day. “So I’ll see you on Monday then?”

“Definitely. Save me from the bus, Darius. You’re my only hope.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re almost quoting Star Wars on purpose and not by accident.” I smiled silently at the phone inresponse. “See you then, okay? And if you get any more threats—please call me.”

“Will do.”

“G’night, Jessie.”

“G’night,” I said quietly and hung up.

And thirty seconds after that I got a message on ZB telling me they ought to ‘sew my cunt mouth shut.’

I stared at my phone after that, torn between laughing till I cried or crying till I laughed or throwing my phone across the room and smashing it to bits or running through the house and out into the street, leaving it behind.

No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, to not feed the beast of their ego on the other side, it was crazy-making. And embarrassing. To admit that someone else had even the slightest power over me—God, it chafed. And the knowledge that if I did complain about them, I was going to have to say that they thought I was a whore—it was one of those things that you couldn’t defend yourself against. No matter how it was put, to whatever authority I appealed it to, the first thing whoever I told would think was, ‘Well, are they right? Is she?’

I stared down at my phone. “Fuck you,” I whispered, and went in after them.

There was the ZB I knew and saw, that I participated in, the photo collages, the idiotic endless ticking, and then there was the ZB below, and falling into it was like falling into a haystack. I could feel it all around me, jabbing me with lines of code, but without the context of ZB. Lines—light—moved, but from here to where I didn’t know. I felt my brain stretch, trying to encompass it all, and thought Darius might be right, this might be the exact moment when my brain did explode—when a slippery line flewby, meant for me. I caught it, not knowing what to do with it, feeling like I did when I was a kid and my dad took me fishing and had given me a flopping fish to hold, still on the line, and the hook had gone through the gills and pricked me.