The first thing I remember is the heat rising from the Stonebridge University parking lot.
It made the distance between my old Honda and the freshman orientation gates shimmer like a promise.
I had my enrollment folder under one arm, and inside it was the scholarship letter I had read so many times the crease had gone soft.
That letter meant books.
It meant housing.
It meant four years without asking Wade Concaid for permission to breathe.
Wade was waiting beside his black truck, parked sideways behind my car as if even the pavement belonged to him.
He wore contractor boots, a gold watch, and the kind of smile he used before taking something from someone who could not afford a lawyer.
“We need to discuss the refund check,” he said.
I told him there was nothing to discuss.
The money was mine because the grades were mine, the essays were mine, the late nights were mine, and the future attached to that scholarship was the first thing in my life he had not touched.
His face changed by one degree.
That was how Wade got dangerous, not by exploding, but by becoming very still.
“Your mother has bills,” he said.
I said my mother had a job.
“Tyler needs capital.”
I said Tyler had already burned through more capital than most people saw in a lifetime.
Then Wade stepped close enough for me to smell his expensive cologne over the hot asphalt.
“Transfer it today, or I’ll make sure you never finish school.”
When I said no, he slapped me so hard my folder opened in the air.
The pages scattered across the lot like birds hit by a storm.
I fell on my wrist, and the skin tore against the pavement.
For one second, all I heard was ringing.
Then a woman’s voice cut through it.