The first thing I saw was that the walls were covered with pictures, diagrams, and even taxidermy of various types of vultures. Bookshelves were overflowing, and piles of tomes and books were stacked precariously at their sides. Mounted between two shelves was a strange metal contraption with various tubes, levers, and two large towers that nearly touched the ceiling.. I followed the towers up and gasped as the vibrant colors of space blotted the black ink. Stars flashed and dimmed as the liquid ceiling stirred like molasses above us. In the middle of the room was a massive wooden desk. Carved etchings of vultures flew around the desk’s thick edge.

  A man, who I assume is Principal Hortimeyer, was wearing a scholar’s robe over a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, sitting absentmindedly hitting a paddle ball.

  The bucket hat on his head covered his eyes, and he didn't see me at first. I coughed to alert him of my presence.

  A broad grin forms on his face when he notices me in the room. Principal Hortimeyer removes his hat, and a mound of thick, wavy hair flops out.

  He offers out a hand for a handshake.

  I hesitantly give it to him.

  I grimace when he mentions the news. He carried on as if he didn't seem to notice.

  He pauses to take a breath.

  I ask, my brain still wheeling from the rollercoaster that is this conversation.

  He leans back and scratches his beard, looking up at the ceiling.

  I took a few moments to think about his words. Something about them didn't feel right. They sat in my stomach like a gas station burrito.

  It was clear that it didn't matter what I wanted. I wanted to live a normal, safe life. Instead, my life, which I studied and fought for, is gone—all because I have bad blood.

  There's no place safe when the danger is you.

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  I agree.

  Hopefully, if I just nod along, I can finish this interview and finally eat something.

  Hortimeyer seemed a bit disappointed. He crosses his arms and leans back in his office chair.

  Principal Hortimeyer’s face hardened as he placed my transcripts on his desk, looking deep into my eyes.

  I say matter-of-factly.

  I look down and pull at the fabric of my jeans. I try to remove any hint of emotion in my voice when I said it, to try and separate it from the memory, but I couldn’t. I was transported back, for the briefest of moments, to being covered in my classmate’s blood, shards of black-purplish ichor piecing the floor and walls of the room, and the haunting screams that filled my head.

  Hortimeyer cocks his head then smiles condescendingly.

  I stay silent and glare back at him.

  If this conversation were a car accident, my neck would break from the whiplash. This Hortimeyter man is incapable of having a streamlined sequence of thought.

  I nod. I couldn’t have said it better myself, it describes me to a T.

  The waste.

  He smirks.

  Principal Hortimeyer leaps over to the wall-mounted contraption, a maze of metal, glass tubes, and levers. He scoops dark powder into a cone-shaped slot and presses a button. The machine roars to life, blinking lights and hissing steam, and the powder shoots into a glass bowl, floating in clumpy defiance. He flicked a lever, and a pearly liquid slithered through the tubes. As it neared the center, he snapped two more levers, and clear and light brown fluids joined the dance. The clumps dissolved into a muddy swirl, then rich, shifting coffee emerged.

  Hortimeyer grabbed two school logo mugs, set them under a spigot, and poured the brew with one final press, handing one to me. I take a swig; it is the most delicious cup of coffee I've ever had the misfortune of having. Everything about this coffee was perfect. It was my favorite flavor, the perfect blend of sweetness undercut with that bitter coffee taste that kept me gulping for more. The hot sensation spread from my face to my toes and back up.

  He says in between sips from his mug.

  I smile for the first time in weeks. I gulp down the hot liquid, ignoring the coffee burning my tongue. I place the mug back on the coaster and look back up at Principal Hortimeyer, who is smiling at me from behind his mug.

  I say.

  He drinks from his mug.

  Hortimeyer pulls a sheet of paper from under the desk's drawers and puts it in front of me.

  The top of the paper had the United States seal on it. In bold letters right under it read: Disciplinary Rules and Procedures for Offending Minors

  He rolls a pen to me, and I grab it before it falls. Before I could sign my name, Hortimeyer flexes and pulls the paper back slightly.

  I ask.

  He taps at the table, his eyes looking me up and down.

  I feel my brows crease on my forehead.

  Hortimeyer slides the paperback.

  I sign the paper and hand it back to him. We stand up together and make our way towards the door. He hands me a duffle bag with the Institute's emblem and a thick packet of papers labeled

  Hortimeyer shoves me out of the room and shuts the door behind me.

  Would you trust someone like Hortimeyer?