They hover at the threshold while the atrium breathes and the rain writes fast cursive on the glass.
"Now," the sky says.
"Now," Max echoes, and they go.
It's a heavy, organized rain—the kind that knows the gutters by first name. They take the covered path, then commit to the fifteen steps that are not covered because life contains fifteen-step problems. The air is clean in the way soap commercials lie about.
Jace's phone hums in the pocket that stays dry. Becca:label printed. ups drop? i can go now if it keeps me from thinking about 'retail swap code' like a goblin.
He answers while moving, thumb steady, feet steady.
Jace:UPS Campus counter is open until 18:00. Let's beat the window. Case + buds only; label outside; RMA note inside. We'll coach, you'll hand it over.
Becca: meet you at lobby in 10. i'll bring tape unless tape is a sacrament you carry.
Jace: We carry tape.
The dorm lobby smells like wet nylon and floor cleaner. A poster about finals is curling at the edges like it wants to be a metaphor. The elevator takes its time correctly. In the room, Jace pulls the Handouts folder out long enough to slide the printed proof under the clear top and writes PRINT 25 (10:00) — EXTENSION on a sticky he plants on the bag. He pockets baggies for receipts and the extension cord itself because the universe respects people who disrespect outlet distances.
Max digs in the drawer that holds universal answers and comes up with the tape—the good stuff that doesn't cry when you ask it to perform. "Bag for the RMA note?" he asks.
"Top flap," Jace says. He pulls the wallet notebook and flips to Becca — RMA; the line sits there like a sentence that wants to be finished with a scan. RMA 7143-M looks back like a promise.
Knock. Maya at the door, hood up, hair obeying rain physics. She holds a sheet like a passport. "Label," she says, proud of printers. "Also I hate rivers now."
"Process beats rivers," Jace says, and gestures Becca in behind Maya, box under her arm, the look of a person who has decided to win the small fight tonight.
"Case + buds only," Becca says, mock-reciting. "No tips, no wings, no box. Note inside. I can be taught."
They work at the desk like a tiny assembly line that believes in cardboard. Jace writes the note clean, sharp letters: RMA 7143-M — Left earbud volume low; right normal. — BQ. He folds it once and lays it in the case bay. Becca reseats both buds and clicks the case shut; Max holds the shipping box open like a mouth; Jace sets the case in like a jewel you intend to mail to a friend and not a pirate. Tape: one strip lengthwise, one strip crosswise, seams tight enough to make a scoutmaster proud.
"Label," Jace says.
Maya peels the backing with the ferocity of a scientist removing contamination and lays the label flat, no bubbles, corners pressed, barcode unmarred.
Jace reads, out loud, for the ledger and the air. "UPS TRACKING: 1Z 84A 2W9 03 4417 221 7. Ship-by: five business days. From: Becca Q. To: AuralNorth Returns, Bloomfield." He writes the tracking in the notebook, block letters, then repeats the numbers as he writes because sound is glue.
Maya points at the sky like it can hear her. "We go now or we swim later."
They go now. Down, through, across. Becca carries; Jace walks a half pace to her left, the shape of coach not clerk. Max takes the outside in case wind decides to learn tricks; he can body-block weather better than most furniture.
UPS Campus is three minutes of rain away—a glass front with tired tape on the counter and a scale that measures truth. The clerk looks up with the expression of someone who sees one million boxes a day and is still trying to like each one as a person.
"Drop-off," Becca says, setting the box down like it's a pet she's helping adopt. "Prepaid label."
"On the scale," the clerk says. He does the ceremony: scan, beep, small nod that means barcodes are still religion. The printer spits a receipt like a receipt. He tapes a secondary little label on the corner with a flourish that says I do this well.
Jace doesn't speak to the clerk. He keeps his hands visible, not touching, standing like air can audit posture. He writes the scan time into the notebook: 17:12 — SCAN ACCEPTED. He adds the tiny drawing of a barcode because his brain rewards itself with icons.
The clerk slides a little stub across. "Drop receipt," he says.
Becca takes it like she prefers paper to memory. "Thank you."
"E-mail will confirm," the clerk says, pointing to the future, and is correct: Becca's phone pings with AuralNorth: "Return label scanned."
She beams at the tiny light. "Cross-ship timer… go."
"Two hours," Jace says. "Ping if it doesn't show. If it shows, enjoy symmetrical sound."
"Sound is political," Maya says, solemn, earning a private laugh.
They step back into rain that's moved from heavy to committed. The puddles are practicing the idea of lakes. Max tips his head toward the academic core. "C109?"
"C109," Jace agrees.
The building is old enough to smell like books even in wings that don't hold them. C109 is open; the light switch is the reachable kind. The room is a rectangle with conviction: rows, whiteboard, podium, projector. Outlets line the walls like obedient soldiers. Jace walks the perimeter with a practiced look that counts and forgives.
"HDMI," he says, touching the coiled cord. He plugs his laptop in just long enough to see the projector blink awake and show a desktop that contains only Handouts, Talks, and a folder called Trash that is actual trash and not a metaphor. The image keystones gentle; he taps the projector's foot like a sleepy cat until it squares. He picks up a dry-erase marker and makes a dot in the board's corner, then wipes it to check the eraser's self-esteem.
"Outlets exist," Max says, testing one with the extension cord and a phone charger. "Power is real."
Jace stands at the front and lets the room loan him silence. He says, to nobody and to exactly the right number of bodies tomorrow, "Rails before luck," and the air accepts it like a thesis. He does not try another line because he likes starting on a clean edge with the real humans in the chairs; practice is for plugs and boards and doors, not for sentences that want to meet ears warm.
They close C109 behind them with the care you give to a room that is going to help you explain yourself. The hallway is bright. The carpet tries to be optimistic. The rain at the far windows keeps being rain.
Their phones whisper simultaneously. RA Group Chat — Floor 3:
RA (Caleb): Hey folks—heavy runoff. We're laying sandbags at basement doors now. Could use hands for 20 min. Gloves provided. No heroics—just a line.
"Rails meet river," Max says.
"Process beats rivers," Maya says, full circle.
"We're in," Jace texts back. He pockets the notebook and envelope in one motion that looks like the inside of his life. He checks the bag: proof, extension, baggies, tape. He flips NO RE-ENTRY to face himself and taps it once for humor, once for prayer.
The basement is a concert for boots and instructions. Caleb is there with a vest that catches what little light is trying, a stack of gloves, and a face that says thank you for existing. A pallet of sandbags hunched like gray loaves leans against a wall. The outside doors show the useful violence of water getting persuasive at the threshold.
"Line from pallet to door one, then door two," Caleb says, efficient. "One bag per two feet. Don't stack higher than your knees; stability wins. Watch your backs; bend like you like yourself. If you get tired, say swap."
Max is already in place, grinning at labor like it owes him a drink. Maya rolls her sleeves with the drama of a lab coat learning to be a cape. Jace steps into the line between them, palms ready, the tape on his inner pocket cool against his shirt.
The first bag comes off the pallet with that thud that announces gravity. It is not heavy heavy; it is enough. He grips the plastic like a friend's forearm—firm, no fingernails. They pass to Maya, who passes to Max, who sets it against the jamb in a way that says I have placed and will place again.
The stairwell hums with wet voices. The outside door rattles politely under the weather's insistence. Caleb lays the second bag with the confidence of someone who has practiced being calm when water auditions for the role of god.
Jace breathes through his nose, counts the beat of the line, and lifts.