Becca only meant to peek at Advanced Thermodynamics for People Who Hate Numbers.
Page twelve snapped shut like a mousetrap—whump—and the textbook flopped over her like an ambush blanket.

The velvet sofa wheezed under the impact. Its cushions smelled of mothballs and forgotten tea, a floral musk that clung to her sweater like an old rumor.
“Great,” she muttered. “Death by glossary.”

Heat pulsed from the radiator in damp, metallic breaths. Pipes ticked like a patient metronome, marking every minute she wasn’t studying. Somewhere near her ankle, a silverfish scuttled a neat little patrol.

A soft rustle drew her eye to the far arm of the couch.
A gerbil—plump, cinnamon-colored, eyes like polished seeds—sat upright, paws folded as if grading her performance. Its nose twitched with microscopic authority.

“You ever feel like life is just one long footnote?” Becca asked.
The gerbil twitched.
“Like we keep collecting facts, but the story keeps editing itself?”
More twitching.
“Do you think entropy is personal? Because I feel personally attacked.”

The gerbil blinked once, whiskers vibrating like tuning forks.

“Fine,” she said, curling deeper beneath the book’s heavy cover. “Stay silent. Let the human do all the emotional labor.”

A dulcet, throat-lozenge cough broke the hush.
“Ma’am,” said the custodian, leaning on his mop like a philosopher king, “are you being… harassed by the literature?”

Becca peeked out, hair static-frizzed into a purple-green mushroom cloud.
“It’s consensual,” she deadpanned. “We’re workshopping an integrated learning experience.”

The custodian squinted. “Book club gone feral, huh?”

“Yeah. Safe word is bibliography.”

He gave a solemn nod and shuffled off, his squeaky shoes fading into the oak-paneled quiet.

Becca settled back, feeling the papery heartbeat of a thousand unread pages press against her ribs. Maybe surrender was just another kind of study session.

Somewhere in the folds, the book rustled and whispered,
“Shh. Plot twist incoming.”

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