Chapter 2: The Dead Joystick Under The Cold September Rain
The rain thickened until the courtyard looked blurred at the edges, as if the glass doors and iron gate belonged to a different place. Water ran from my hair into my eyes and down the front of my shirt. I blinked it away and lowered my hand toward the joystick console.
The black control stick was slick beneath my fingers. Its small indicator light stayed dark.
I pressed forward.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, harder this time, leaning my weight into the armrest. The chair did not hum, lurch, or even twitch. A weak blue spark flickered beneath the cracked plastic housing, then disappeared. The smell of wet insulation rose from the console, sharp and faintly bitter.
Behind the glass, Trent still held the yellow rain cover over one arm. The antique brass key hung from his other hand, turning slowly on his finger. He had not moved toward the doors. The warmth behind him remained visible in pieces: the glow of the fireplace, the leather furniture, the dry floor where water could not reach.
I tried the joystick a third time. My thumb slipped. The chair stayed fixed in the center of the sunken courtyard.
At the gate, Garrett did not look away from me for long. He studied the distance between the bars and the courtyard steps, then the slope of the cobblestones, then the glass doors beyond me. His eyes followed the drainage channel along the edge of the paving and the narrow opening beside the gatepost. He seemed to be measuring every obstacle before touching anything.
The motorcycles stood behind him in the rain, fifty dark shapes packed along the curb. Their engines had fallen to a low, uneven idle. Water streamed from their mirrors and chrome, collecting in the street. The riders watched through helmets, under hoods, and over raised collars. No one crossed the gate.
Garrett gripped the wet iron bars with both hands and tested them. The gate shuddered in its frame but held. He looked down at the lock, then back through the bars toward the lobby. Trent lifted the key slightly, making certain it remained visible.
The gesture was small. It carried across the whole courtyard.
I pulled my shoulders inward as another gust struck me. My hands had begun to stiffen. The wheels were sunk just enough into the uneven cobblestones that even if the motor had worked, the chair would have needed a careful angle to reach the steps. The front casters sat in shallow water. Each passing second put more water beneath the battery housing.
I reached for the console again, searching along its underside for a reset button. My fingers found a loose seam and a bead of water. When I touched it, the indicator flashed once. The chair gave a dry click and died again.
Garrett saw it. His attention dropped to the console, then moved to the rain cover in Trent’s hand. He looked back at the gate and ran one palm over the latch assembly. The lock was on the lobby side of the ironwork, beyond his reach.
Inside, the fraternity members had gathered behind Trent. Their faces shifted between him, Garrett, and me. The glass kept the rain out and kept their silence in. Trent remained nearest the doors, the cover folded against his arm, the key dangling at chest height.
The downpour became harder. It struck my face like thrown gravel. Water ran beneath the chair and over my shoes. My teeth knocked together, and I pressed both hands against my ribs to steady them.
Garrett moved along the gate until he reached the hinge side. He crouched, inspected the lower bar, then the gap between the gate and the stone post. When he stood, his jacket was already dark with rain. He placed one hand on the latch and the other around a vertical bar.
The gate groaned.
It did not open, but the frame shifted enough for rust-colored water to shake loose from the hinge. Garrett adjusted his footing on the slick stones and leaned into it again, choosing the narrow path instead of the locked entrance.
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Behind the glass, Trent’s hand closed around the brass key.
Garrett set his shoulder against the gate. The motorcycles idled behind him, and the rain erased everything except the pressure building in the iron. I watched him prepare to force a way through while the lobby doors remained shut, the cover remained inside, and the key stayed in Trent’s grasp.
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