I don’t say any of this to Harvey, though. I don’t want to have to explain what I barely understand myself. So instead I just tell him, “I felt like walking this morning. Wanted the exercise.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he doesn’t complain as we veer off the main path and onto the winding trail that will take us to the dorms. I’ve taken it twice a day, every day, for the last two weeks, so I’m pretty familiar with it. But still, on days like today, when clouds have moved in, darkening the sky, I can’t help but get freaked out by how ominous it feels. Especially since the path isn’t used very much.

“It’s nice to have company, though,” I tell him with a smile. “Makes the time go faster.”

We spend the next fifteen minutes or so talking about Ayn Rand and Anthem and how messed up it is that a woman who wrote a book like that also participated in the Communist witch hunt of the 1950s.

“It just makes no sense,” I tell him. “If she’s all about how individuality and ego are the only things that matter, how could she have any part in a panel whose sole purpose was to punish people it believed thought differently? I don’t get it.”

“Is that really surprising to you? I thought artists were known for not making sense. Or at least for being completely hypocritical.”

“Not all of them,” I say. “Some of my favorite people in the world are artists of one type or another. They’re really passionate and kind of self-absorbed, but I wouldn’t call them hypocritical.”

I think of Remi, who was amazing at drawing. He didn’t let many people see that side of him—I don’t know if he was afraid it wasn’t tough enough for the neighborhood we lived in or if he just wanted to keep it to himself—but he had well over a dozen sketch pads filled with the most beautiful drawings. When he died, his mother gave all but one of them to me.

They’re one of the few things I actually brought with me from New Orleans. I haven’t been able to open them yet, haven’t been able to look at the dark lines and broad strokes that make up so much of Remi’s sketches, but I can’t let them go, either. Someday, I tell myself. Someday, maybe, it won’t hurt when I try to open them.

“Maybe I’m biased,” Harvey said. “My mom was a singer. She ran out on us when I was little because she had to ‘follow her bliss.’ I don’t think my dad ever got over it.”

“My dad did almost that same thing.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry.”

“No big deal. I was a baby, so I never got the chance to know him.” I reach over and put a hand on his arm. “But I’m sorry about your mom.”

We’re almost at the end of the woods now, with only about half a mile between us and the warmth of the dorm, and I can’t wait to get there. My fingers and toes are completely numb, and even though I’m wearing a hat and scarf, my ears and nose feel like they might actually be getting frostbitten.

How the hell do people actually live up here? Sure, it’s beautiful, but there are lots of beautiful places in the world where snow doesn’t cover the ground for six months of the year. Like Tahiti. Or Brazil. Or, hell, Ethiopia. It’s getting to the point where I don’t care where I go as long as it’s away from here.

I start to quicken my pace—I can almost feel my flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers—but Harvey stops me with a hand to my elbow.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. For a second, my mind is filled with images of wolves or bobcats or whatever the hell kind of wildlife lives up here. Every time I walk this stupid trail, I have visions of being dragged off into the wilderness by some starving animal with really sharp teeth and a love of human flesh. Overly dramatic, maybe, but I’m a city girl and have no problem admitting it.

“Nothing.” Harvey tugs off one of his gloves, then brushes ice-cold fingers to my face. “Your cheeks are really pink.”

Alarm bells start going off in my head. Still, I shove them back, try to convince myself that I’m wrong. The last thing I need is for Harvey to make a play for me—he’s pretty much the only friend I’ve got here and I don’t want to ruin that by rejecting him.

“It’s the wind,” I tell him, taking a couple of steps back. “I think it’s flayed off the first three layers of my skin.”

He doesn’t get the hint. Instead, he moves a couple of steps closer, strokes his fingers down my hair.

“I need to get going,” I tell him. “I told my mom I’d call her at four-thirty and it’s almost that now.”

“You’re really pretty. You know that, right?” He plunges his hands deeper into my hair—hard enough for my hat to fall off—and his fingers tangle in the strands.

“Harvey.” I put a hand on his chest, try to push him back a little. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

For some crazy, godforsaken reason, Z’s face pops into my head at the question. Not Remi, but Z. It freaks me out so much that I end up shoving Harvey away, hard—and nearly losing a chunk of my hair in the process.

“Ow!” My hand goes to the sore spot where he pulled my hair. “What the hell was that for?”

“Why’d you push me away like that?” Suddenly he’s even closer than before. And this time the closeness doesn’t seem nearly as innocuous as it did a couple of minutes ago. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s just—” I start to tell him about Remi, but I never talk about him. Never. And I’m not going to start now just to make some guy who has definitely overstepped his bounds feel better.

“What? I’m not good enough for you because I’m a dishwasher?”

“I never said that,” I tell him, even as I start to back away from him. The alarm bells have become full-fledged shrieks and whistles, along with a get-the-hell-out-of-there-girl warning that I have no intention of ignoring. “I thought we were friends.”

“What if I don’t want to be your friend?” He grabs my arms, hauls me in closer to him. “What if I want to be more?”

Shit. This isn’t going to end well. I can tell already. I try to pull away from him, but he tightens his grip until his fingers are digging into my arms hard enough to cause pain.

“Let me go, Harvey.” I pull harder, wrenching my arms from his grasp, then stumble back and nearly fall flat on my ass, thanks to the snow. “I have to get back to my room. I’ve got to make that phone call.”

He reaches out to steady me, but I don’t want his help. I’d rather fall flat on my ass than take anything from a guy who thinks manhandling me is an effective means of communication.

“Hey, chill, Ophelia. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yeah, I might believe that if I didn’t still feel the imprint of his fingers around my biceps. From the way it aches, I’m pretty sure he’s left a bruise. “Fine. Then let me go back to my room. I need to call my mom.” I repeat the info with the hope that it will sink into his thick skull.

How the hell did I get myself into this situation? I thought Harvey was a nice, harmless guy—probably because he reminds me of Remi’s BFF, Max, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I even wrote off the creepy way I saw him looking at me and some of the other girls as nervousness because he lacked social skills. It never occurred to me that something more sinister was going on. But obviously that was my freaking mistake. Turns out Harvey’s plans include a late afternoon fuck fest, one I’m suddenly thinking he won’t mind making into a rape fest if I don’t cooperate.

And I’m definitely not cooperating. But I’m not going to show fear, either. Not to this asshole who has delusions of being a player. It may be my own stupidity that got me into this mess—when the hell am I going to learn?—but I’m done playing nice. All that does is get me into trouble.

When he doesn’t say anything, I start to move around him, taking great care not to touch him. But he moves with me. Blocks my path. Goddamnit. He’s got a teasing smile on his face, like this is all a game, but I don’t want to play. Not now. Not with him.

“Come on, Harvey. I don’t have time for this.”

“Sure you do. You don’t have any plans tonight.”

The first stages of fear work their way through the mad. “How do you know what plans I have?”

“I asked around. I wanted to make sure you were free to have dinner with me.”

“Is there even anything wrong with your car?” I ask as all the pieces come together in my head.

He looks down, pretends to be embarrassed. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

Fuck. Every nerve ending I have is standing up in alarm now. I glance around, try to ignore my racing heart and sweating palms, but it’s not working. Not when panic is welling up inside me like a balloon on the verge of popping. It’s getting hard to breathe, hard to think. I’ve been here before, know where this is going to end up if I don’t get him away from me.

I want to make a run for it, but I’m still clumsy in snow. Half the time I end up falling if I try to walk too fast, and the last thing I want right now is to be on the ground with Harvey above me. “Let’s head to the cafeteria, then,” I finally say, hoping to appease him by sorta going along with what he wants. “I skipped lunch, so I’m totally up for a snack or something.”

He smiles triumphantly at my words, like he’s somehow won something. It makes me burn, and a million insults find their way to my tongue. I don’t voice any of them, though. Not out here where no one can hear me scream. Not out here where I’m at the mercy of this giant ape and his disgusting libido. As soon as I’m back at the employee lodge, I’m telling him off, then running to my room. And I’m not coming out until I’ve practiced all those self-defense moves Remi taught me when we first started dating.