“OW! WHAT THE HELL, MAN? I WAS JUST SAYING HI!”

I stare at my fist in shock.

Holy hell. I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t generally go around punching people in the face. It was a knee-jerk reaction. A reflex.

What the hell have I done? Am I going to be suspended? Expelled, even? My first day and I’m already punching people.

My victim is a woman, and she’s bent over, more in surprise than pain. Thankfully, my fist didn’t collide with her face. I hit her boob instead. It’s probably why my hand isn’t smarting right now. I have lousy aim.

“Oh my god. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear—I’m not a violent person. You scared me is all. That’s no excuse… Fuck, I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

I’ve been saying an awful lot of sorries lately. First for screaming in my roommate’s face and now for punching this stranger in the tit. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do you need help?” I repeat. “Do you want me to take you to the campus clinic?”

The woman eyes me warily.

This is it. This woman is going to call the cops. They’ll come to arrest me and figure out who I am, and that’ll be the last straw. They’ll haul me off to a mental institution where I’ll live out the rest of my days scooting around in grippy socks and slurping applesauce cups.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I could use the mental vacation. Do they still do lobotomies, or are those illegal now?

“You’re lucky I don’t have implants,” the woman exclaims, rubbing her chest where I hit her. “You could’ve made my whole boob explode.”

“I guess that makes you lucky too,” I say sheepishly. “I’m really sorry again. I’m a little nervous. First day jitters and all.”

“Clearly. Jesus. Just don’t hit me again, okay?”

“I promise. Scout’s honor,” I say.

The woman straightens her blouse and holds out her hand. “I’m Libby. I was trying to greet you for Swingers Club.”

“Hi, I’m Isis. And I have no idea what a swingers club is,” I say, taking her hand. “Is that like a polyamory thing?”

“It’s like dancing,” Libby says, giving me a funny look.

“Oh…right. Swing dancing. I got it.”

“It’s really fun,” Libby insists. “Kind of retro, but it’s coming back in style!”

“Cool…listen, are you sure I didn’t hurt you? Can I buy you a coffee or something?”

Libby laughs. “I’m fine, really. You didn’t break anything. I don’t even think it will leave a bruise. It was kind of a weak throw, no offense. You could work on that. Maybe take some self-defense classes.”

Yeah, perfect. I’ll get right on that.

“I grew up with brothers, so I know all about punching and getting punched,” Libby says, smiling at me. “I was the youngest, but I could kick most of their asses.”

She detects my unease.

“Are you okay? I feel like I should be buying you a coffee. Really, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about it. All is forgiven. Actually…there is something you could do to make it up to me. It wouldn’t even cost you money.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

She grabs me by the wrist, gently, this time.

“You can sign up for Swingers Club! We need new members.”

I’m not a dancer at all—I’m pretty sure I have two left feet—but I allow Libby to drag me over to Swingers Club. I owe it to her for attacking her, even if it was in self-defense.

Libby takes me to a rehearsal studio where seven or eight other students wait, stretching their bodies into various poses.

It turns out Libby is the head of Swingers Club. No surprise there.

I watch as Libby bounces around the room, guiding the rest of the group in a routine. At first it looks ridiculously hard, but after watching the others do it a few times, I feel brave enough to join them. I nearly trip over my own feet a few times, but after a while I find myself laughing, even at my own mistakes. I’m weirdly enjoying myself. It’s a rare thing these days. I can just forget who I am for a little while. I’m not Isis Chambers, the final girl. I’m just another random student twirling around like a nerd to swing music, not caring that I have zero rhythm. I even work up a bit of a sweat.

“What do you think?” Libby asks after everyone else clears out, taking a swig from a hot-pink water bottle.

“I had a good time,” I admit.

Libby squeals and jumps up and down. “That makes me so happy! I knew you’d love it. You’ll have to come back!”

I eye her suspiciously. “Do you know who I am?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re Isis.”

“Yeah. That’s my name. But like, do you know?”

Libby looks genuinely confused. “Should I?”

I sigh. “If you read the news, you probably would.”

“I try not to read the news, honestly. It’s too depressing. That’s why I started Swingers Club. It makes people happy! Anyway, I don’t care who you are, or who you were. To me, you’re Isis, my new dancing buddy! I can tell we’re going to be good friends.”

Good god, this girl might be one of the few sincere people left on the planet.

“Why don’t you come with me to this frat party this weekend?”

My stomach turns at the thought of a frat party. Am I ready to dive back into Greek life again? Is it too soon?

I can’t bear to turn Libby down, though. She’s like a golden retriever puppy. She literally has big brown puppy-dog eyes.

I don’t want to straight-up reject her, so I tell her I’ll think about it.

“If you can’t make this one, maybe we can go to another party,” she says cheerfully.

“Maybe,” I say weakly.

***

The next few days are a painful blur. I didn’t think simply attending college would be so hard. I’ve been through way worse. I made it through a rash of serial killings where all of my friends died. Sitting in class and studying should be a walk in the park in comparison. Sophomore year should be a breeze. All I have to do is show up.

But it’s a lot. Everywhere I go, people recognize me. And the people who don’t recognize me will notice other people making a fuss, Google my name, and then recognize me. I can feel people staring at me in class and in the halls. Most people try to be subtle about it, but an obnoxious few have the nerve to stop me and ask for a selfie. Like I’m Taylor Swift or something. All I did was survive while everyone I love died. Why the fuck do people think that’s selfie-worthy?

I’ve tried to make my social media accounts private. I might delete them eventually. No one can find me that easily, but I can just imagine the posts people are making of their photos with me, claiming shit like “SURVIVOR Isis Chambers, so brave, so #inspiring!”

Some of them ask me questions about going face-to-face with the killer. I’m always too flustered to respond. I don’t have a good story to tell, anyway. I wish I did. I wish the story was that I faced my fears and saved all my friends. But the truth is I just ran. Running away is what saved my life.

I feel like I’m still running. I’m tired of the panic attacks. Tired of the exhaustion. Tired of the PTSD flashbacks. Tired of having to tell my story to every random person lacking boundaries.

My only saving grace at this school is Libby, who remains blissfully unaware of the reasons behind my notoriety. She takes me under her wing. I can tell she’s noticed that I’m a walking social nightmare—the opposite of a pariah, which is what I’d rather be—but she’s never mentioned the killings. I can’t believe she hasn’t bothered to look me up by now. If she hasn’t, I admire her restraint. If she has, then she’s being a good friend by giving me space and not asking me about what happened.

It’s my trust in Libby’s friendship that makes me finally agree to go to the frat party with her this weekend. I agree at the very last minute. I barely have enough time to do my makeup or put on a nice outfit.

“You look great!” Libby insists, and I’m sure she’s just being nice, but I appreciate her enthusiasm. “I’m so happy you’re coming. We’re going to have a blast! Trust me, the parties here are killer.”

I wince at her choice of words. If Libby notices, she doesn’t say anything.

She takes my hand and leads me to the frat house.

I take a deep breath. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of running.

I already survived a bunch of senseless murders on campus.

What’s the worst that could happen to me now?