The Project - Courtney Summers Page 0,3

shoulders, elbows touching my elbows. I press my lips together and close my eyes, rubbing my hands together. I love wasting a day off at the doctor’s office for my annual diagnosis of still kicking, whatever that means.

“Whoever will lose his life for my sake will find it.”

I still at the strangeness of the words, at the newly unwelcome familiarity of the voice they belong to. I open my eyes and glance beside me to see if anyone else heard, but if they have, they do what I don’t, keeping their faces pointed down the tracks, awaiting the train. I decide to do the same, ignoring the heavy presence behind me until there’s a push against my back, and those words again—but closer.

“Whoever will lose his life for my sake will—”

I face him. “Look, would you back the fuck off—”

“You’re Lo,” he says.

It stuns me into silence. His eyes broker no argument, more certain of me than I’ve ever been of myself. Before I can ask him how he knows my name, where he ever could have heard it, he opens his mouth once more. The rumble of the oncoming train drowns him out, but I read his lips: Find it. He grasps my arm and moves me aside to push through the disgruntled travelers standing between him and the edge of the platform. The edge of the platform and the …

“Hey,” I say at his back. “Hey!”

No one sees him until he’s made a clean jump onto the tracks and then everyone sees him and they all watch, waiting for what he’ll do next.

“There’s still time,” someone yells.

There’s still time. Maybe he just had to get this close to the other side to realize it was there all along because sometimes that’s the moment life brings you to. But more often than not, it feels like it’s this one: you lie down on the tracks and the train is coming.

The boy, trembling, lifts his head to be sure.

I turn away, my heart pounding, and force myself back through all the bodies until I’m free of the immediate crowd, only to be trapped by another greater swell of onlookers.

One of them screams, “Don’t do it!” But it’s already done.

OCTOBER 2017

I’ve been answering Paul Tindale’s phone, replying to Paul Tindale’s emails, scheduling Paul Tindale’s appointments and getting Paul Tindale’s coffee for exactly one year. Lauren brings this to my attention—as if I wasn’t already acutely aware—when I arrive at the SVO office, eight a.m. as usual, balancing breakfast in my arms. I artfully arrange the assortment of bagels, croissants and donuts on the kitchen island and watch as she plucks a pastry from the center of my masterpiece, fucking with the whole aesthetic. She’s flawless as always: black hair knotted into a messy top bun; large, black-rimmed glasses a stylish interruption across her face; her signature merlot lipstick perfectly complementing her golden-brown skin. She says, “Happy anniversary, newbie,” ahead of her first delicate bite before wandering away.

Low-rolling thunder sounds over the building, a precursor to a greater storm. I grab a chocolate croissant and make my way to my desk tucked in the corner directly outside Paul’s office. I pass a row of cubes to get there, empty for now, but in another hour, the dissonant sounds of keyboard clatter and office banter will float over dividing walls. It’s a small space but SVO makes good use of it on account of having such a small staff. Two years ago, Paul founded the magazine out of pocket, envisioning a place for “radical perspectives and bold new voices.” He’s been paying for it ever since. He’s hoping a few out-of-the-box choices on his part—establishing outside of NYC, pushing premium content—will eventually pay off and get him acquired by a publisher that can pull him back into the city while retaining total control over his vision. For now, it’s respectably fledgling and it’s exciting waiting for the moment we take off and fly, knowing that when it happens, I’ll get to say I was part of it.

I log in to my desktop and check his Google calendar. He’s got something at lunch, but it doesn’t say what. After that, two conference calls with potential sponsors.

The phone on my desk rings. I pick it up.

“SVO. Paul Tindale’s office.”

After twenty seconds, there’s no response—just the faint sound of someone breathing. I look to Lauren, rolling my eyes.

“Breather?” she asks.

I hang up. “I’m so sick of this shit. Who did he piss off this month?”

“Who doesn’t