Terror trio: back in action

Study Dates & Sweet Escapades

It was the middle of the night, and every man, woman, and child was fast asleep — everyone except one: Jake. Hidden in the shadows of his dimly lit room, illuminated only by a desk lamp, Jake stayed up late studying for an upcoming history test. Strands of his curls fell into his soulful brown eyes, which now bore bags underneath them. Jake's world felt confined within this sparse, single room, furnished with a standard-issue bed, a desk, and a crucifix that seemed to judge his every thought. His short, dark curls were tangled and damp from running his hands through them repeatedly in frustration. Brown eyes, usually lively with suppressed energy, were shaded with exhaustion and the strain of staring at the dense textbook pages. He glanced at the walkie-talkie sitting on the desk next to a pile of formidable textbooks. Devon had given it to him a few months earlier — a silly, somewhat impractical gift born out of shared boredom and a desire for a direct, untraceable line of communication that couldn't be blocked by lights-out or monitored like school email. "For emergencies," Devon had joked, "or just when you miss my voice." Now, it felt like an emergency. Not a fire or medical crisis, but a crisis of the soul — a desperate need for connection in this suffocating solitude and a frantic desire to pass Sister Dorthea's history exam. Jake hesitated, his hand hovering over the device. Using it felt like ringing a bell in a silent monastery. What if someone overheard? What if Devon was asleep? But the loneliness was physically painful. The history textbook seemed to mock him with its impenetrable paragraphs. He needed Devon — his calm presence, sharp mind, easy laughter — and maybe, just maybe, the warmth of his hand. Taking a deep breath, Jake reached for the walkie-talkie.

"Basecamp, this is Outpost Alpha. Do you copy? Over." Jake clicked the side button, holding it down

"Outpost Alpha, this is Basecamp. I copy. What's the situation? Over." Devon's voice, slightly muffled, but instantly recognizable, warm, and laced with a hint of sleepiness

"Situation is... Code Red study emergency. Dorthea's Baroque is kicking my ass. I'm losing the will to live. Over." Jake said, trying to keep his voice low, pressing the walkie-talkie close to his mouth

"Code Red, huh? Sounds serious. Need backup? Over." Devon chuckled through the speaker

"Affirmative. Requesting immediate assistance. High priority. Over." Jake swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper

"Acknowledged. Backup en route. Estimated time of arrival... five minutes. Keep the perimeter secure. Over and out." Devon confirmed, unleashing a small giggle before the signal went offline

A wave of warmth, mixed with a jolt of adrenaline, shot through Jake. Devon would come. Devon always came. Knowing Devon would be risking as much as Jake was asking him to, Jake cleared a space on the floor by his bed, away from the direct light of the desk lamp. He gathered his books, making it look as much like a legitimate study session as possible. He checked the door lock – a standard, non-deadbolt kind that only offered the illusion of privacy from the inside – and listened. Silence. The hum of the light, his own breathing. Minutes stretched, each one feeling longer than the last. He imagined Devon, navigating the darkened corridors, listening for the tell-tale creak of a floorboard or the soft cough of a supervising Father. Devon, with his quiet strength and easy confidence, was better at this clandestine stuff than Jake was. Jake was all nervous energy and flushed cheeks. Devon was still water, deep and calm. Then, a nearly inaudible tap at the door. Three taps, their signal. Jake’s heart leaped. He was across the room in two silent strides, opening the door just enough for Devon to slip through. Devon Evans, looking impossibly calm, even in the dim light, slid into the room. He wore sweatpants and a t-shirt, his dark curly hair slightly rumpled. His brown eyes, warm and steady, immediately met Jake’s. The air in the room shifted, becoming warmer, thicker, charged with a different kind of energy than the weary academic dread.