by Brett P. S.
Chapter 4
Two Worlds
Ethan hobbled through the door to PASCAL 2200 during the beginning of the lecture portion, hastily making his way over to his desk. The instructor was an old bearded programmer by the name of Harri Powell, though most of his classmates referred to Mr. Powell as sir in respect. Powell gave him a momentary glance and paused for a moment, allowing Ethan time to climb into his seat and drop his books down by his feet. The thought of making an excuse cropped up in his mind, but Ethan bit down hard and pulled out a notepad to scribble out Powell’s gibberish.
The old goat refused to retire two years ago, and the college cringed at paying his hefty salary, so they moved him to entry-level classes where Ethan surmised a thousand questions by technologically illiterate students struck up against his brilliant mind like waves crashing against a shoreline. Every day. In and out. It was all the college could do to get rid of him, and most of the students knew it, so he likely did as well. Ethan would have taken this course if he hadn’t skipped it last spring. Mr. Powell kept on yapping for the time being.
Ethan grabbed his pen and began copying down notes from the projector. His fingers ached after a few minutes of speedwriting, so he dropped his pen and relaxed his fingers for a while. Ethan watched and listened intently while his professor spoke. His words were filled with a confidence Ethan never knew firsthand. Someday though.
He listened for a while longer when someone interrupted his concentration by tapping a pencil against his desk. He glanced back to see who it was, but his classmates seemed focused. Even Gavin, who chose to sit a couple extra seats behind him, stared onward at the professor. Strange. Ethan returned to his seat and tried to direct his attention again, but the tapping noise cropped up. He knew the direction this time, after hearing it twice.
Something was tapping on the windows on the east side, a branch or a wild animal. He shifted his head to see a tiny spiny leg creaking up over the glass. Then, he saw two. Then three. Oh god, he thought to himself. Ethan poured his concentration over his notebook paper, trying to drown out the noise of tiny claws scraping across the glass. He focused long and hard until his eyes hurt from the pressure, but nothing could make that tapping sound go away. Tiny legs. Thousands of them.
“Mr. Cook,” Powell said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Ethan snapped his head up from the sensation of physical contact. “You can leave any time.”
His senses came full circle, and he glanced around at an empty room. His classmates must have left a few minutes ago by the look of empty halls. Ethan diverted his attention to Mr. Powell, who showed a concerned look in his eyes.
“Sorry, I …”
Ethan started, but he failed to finish his sentence before his mind slipped again. Ethan screamed, but nobody heard.
