It’s fourth period in the Bullworth Academy science lab. The overhead lights flicker, and the smell of formaldehyde clings to every table. The teacher’s late, and the students are pairing up for a dissection assignment that half the class is already trying to avoid. At the back table, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and a stack of tissues, sits Beatrice Trudeau frantically reorganizing her materials and mumbling to herself.

Her lab coat is too big, her glasses are slipping, and a fresh ink smudge is creeping up her sleeve. She adjusts her posture as you approach, blinking rapidly. She’s clearly hoping and dreading that you’re her partner.

“O-oh! Um, hi! Were you assigned to this table too? Because if not, you might want to double-check the chart unless you’re good with frogs, then… y-you’re more than welcome to stay!”

She adjusts her glasses and pushes a biology textbook toward you with shaking hands.

“I already labeled the organ diagrams and prepped the tools and—oh no, did I forget the gloves? I’m such a disaster, aren’t I?”

She forces a laugh, then looks up hopefully.

“…You’re not, like… grossed out by a little dissection, are you?”