As I approached her, I felt this uncanny aura around her, an oddness that seemed to fill the air. She was fiddling with the machine, typing away at the buttons almost randomly, unable to follow the obvious instructions taped right there. She’d get two steps into the three-step process, only to reset it or hit the wrong button. Maybe she’s a foreigner? Probably couldn’t even read the language.

She looked like a sheep, like me—well, no, not like me. She didn’t have any dark secret to hide; she only looked like me on the surface. Apart from us both being sheep, there was a world of difference between us. My hair was a fuzzy, soft gray-white, a little unkempt but natural, while hers was golden brown, corn-colored like ripe harvest fields just before autumn.

Her face, though, was the strangest part. It had this gorgeous, almost too-perfect smile—a naturally bright, bubbly look, the kind that makes boys go soft... or hard, at the mere sight of it. But right now, her face was scrunched in a strangely uncharacteristic frown. Tired eyes, layered with shadows, dulled her glow. Her makeup, if she even put any on, was a mess—old and crusted in a way that only happens when you forget to take it off the night before, the remnants chafed and cracking on her cheeks. Amateur move.

I calculated all of this in seconds, sizing her up as she finally turned to face me with this stiff, mechanical movement. I regretted approaching her the moment she opened her mouth, stammering like some neurotic weirdo without a hint of social skill. “Uhm... erm... he-hello?” Her voice was off-kilter, accentuated in a way that didn’t belong to this city. A transfer, probably. still, i was surprised she even spoke English.

She looked panicked, her eyes darting away as she dropped her hands to her sides and took a sharp, shaky breath before speaking. “Oh, uh… uhm… do ya want to use the machine… inste-stead?” Her voice had this odd, forced cadence, like her tongue couldn’t keep up with her mouth, every syllable landing strangely. It reminded me of people who’d had brain damage or some kind of neurological issue, the way someone sounds when they’ve almost forgotten how to form words properly.

I shoved her gently to the side, making space for myself to put my change in the machine, only to see it was already full. She’d managed to jam the thing with a stack of coins and hadn’t even hit the lever to spit them back out. A grin crept onto my face. Well, if you’re going to inconvenience me, I might as well get something out of it.

I punched in the cappuccino setting, watching the machine switch to the double nozzle, and placed a second cup alongside the first. Then I hit the settings for dark chocolate, caramel, extra sugar, cream, and steamed milk—every possible add-on the machine had. As the drink started to drip, the rich scent of caffeine and sugar filled the air, my early-morning antidote to the world.

Satisfied, I grabbed the cup, then handed it to her. “Here,” I said, giving her the sweetest fake smile I could muster. “Hope you don’t make it a habit to ask for my help.” She reached out for it, her voice dropping as she muttered, “Ah, I’m-im so so sorry to bottherr yu ah.”

Our fingers brushed as she took the cup, and I felt the strangest sensation—a brief warmth in her fur, soft and downy, then a flash of cold creeping up my spine, leaving my skin prickling. Our eyes met, and I could swear there was something hollow in hers, like she was somehow sleeping and awake at the same time. Like I was staring into a corpse.

She recoiled suddenly, nearly spilling her drink, then laughed awkwardly. “Whoops, uh, my bad. I’ll, uh, go back to my room now.” She fumbled in her side pocket, fingers grazing her keys, glancing down at them like she wasn’t sure they were hers, then pocketed them again as she turned to leave. Then she checked the number on the key, looked back, then walked a few steps, then looked at it again. Her movements were so erratic, flustered and nervous, like she was panicked or startled. Or maybe all three.

She walked away with a strange, uneven gait, almost like she had a limp—except the limp seemed to switch legs every five steps. Probably some kind of motor function issue, but I couldn’t tell for sure. and she didnt walk with the girlish charm her body emitted; she had this masculine gate to her step. like that of a boy.

What a weirdo. I hope I don’t run into her again.

As I watched her walk out the door, my brow furrowed. Wait—she didn’t even live here. Or is she just going to wander around aimlessly? Drat! She might be trying to raid the sanctioned food in each dorm to stock up her own supply. That sneaky little…

And that accent of hers, it was strange. Maybe she’s some foreign breed of sheep? I’d never seen one quite like her. I pull out my species reference folder, a thick collection of notes and diagrams sectioned by animal families. Each book is different in size, reflecting the strange asymmetry of speciation. I added a tab to the sheep section, marking a note to investigate her background further.

And to make sure her behavior aligned with her species norms. Deviants were the hardest to figure out and always the most dangerous. Categorizing people like this helped me remember them—names and faces aren’t my strong suit, but generalizations let me predict their moves. The one thing I hate most in life is surprises, and people who act outside their species norms are my worst nightmare.