Page 3 of Grave Matter

“Yes, hijab.” She nods vigorously, smiling again. “Yes. Of course. Yup. She went straight to her room. Would you like to do the same? The stewards will bring your bags. Or David can take you right to the learning center and get you introduced to all the other students and the?—”

“Before we do that,” David interjects, “it’s time that Sydney hands over her phone.”

“Of course,” Michelle says, her cheeks going pink. She gives me an anxious look. “Sorry, dear, I know it’s a painful process.”

She holds out her hand expectantly.

I sigh and fish my phone out of my jacket. I tap the screen once just so I can see the wallpaper of my grandmother’s smiling face one last time. But when I do so, something isn’t right about the screen. Before it has time to register, Michelle has taken my phone from me.

“Wait, can I see that again?” I say, trying to take it back.

“Sorry,” she says, letting out a nervous laugh as she quickly slips it into her back pocket. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get used to it. Everyone says they appreciate talking on the phone and the landline so much more. You’ll look forward to your Friday nights. And of course, there’s?—”

David clears his throat, cutting her off. “Now that the hard part is done, let me show you to your room,” he says to me, putting his hand at my back briefly before giving Michelle a curt nod. “Thank you, Michelle.”

“Yes. Of course,” she says before she scurries back into her office.

Yet I can’t stop thinking about my phone. About what should have been a picture of my grandmother, about a year before she died. It was one of the harder days, when Alzheimer’s had taken over her nearly completely, but suddenly she remembered who I was. She looked at me and smiled. “Sydney,” she had said, with so much love it broke me. It was so beautiful and pure and real. I’d taken a picture of that moment. That’s been my wallpaper ever since.

But when I tapped on the screen, for that brief second, that’s not the picture I saw. It was a different picture of my grandmother taken earlier that same day. In that picture, shewas angry and confused, staring right at the camera, wanting me to leave.

A warning.

CHAPTER 2

“This iswhere all your fellow students will be living,” David says as we step onto the second floor landing. It’s dark, despite it being daytime, with only a few sconces along the wood walls that emit a dim light along the hallway, six doors on either side with a couple at the very end. There’s a creepy aspect here that I didn’t expect, though it may have something to do with how unnerved I feel about my grandmother’s photo.

You’re imagining things, I tell myself.You know it didn’t change. And even if it did, you probably selected that other picture by accident.

“And your room is right here,” he says, pointing at the door right beside the stairs. A wooden plaque reads “Room One” in cursive above a carving of a madrona tree. “Showers are at the very end of the hall. There’s also a shower in the floating lab for those who’ve been diving. Each room has its own sink and toilet though.”

He takes out a pair of old-fashioned-looking keys, like the kind you see in a Gothic film, takes one off the ring, and hands it to me. “I know,” he says, noting the wry look on my face, “butthese rooms used to be for the cannery workers—why change the keys?”

I clear my throat, palming the key. “But you get to keep the other one?” I ask.

“We don’t ever enter our students’ rooms without their permission,” he says with a slight smile. “But since keys are easy to lose, we like to hold on to one for safekeeping. Don’t worry, when it comes to lab access, you’ll have your own coded key card. We at least upped the tech in that department.”

I should hope so, I think, taking the key and inserting it into the lock. It turns with a click that I find very satisfying.

I open the door and step inside. The room is small but cozy with a window overlooking a giant cedar, with glimpses of other buildings through the branches. On the walls, there’s an oil painting of a starfish in a tidal pool on one side, a raven on a hemlock branch on the other. A large oak armoire sits across from a double bed with an embroidered red-and-black throw on top.

“Those are made by the Quatsino First Nations,” David points out proudly. “The lodge borders onto their traditional territory, and we take great pride in our working relationship with them.”

Uh-huh. He sounds like he’s reading from a script. Generally, when corporations move on or next to native land, the local bands are the ones who end up getting screwed. I expect an institute like the Madrona Foundation, with all its money and research grants, isn’t looking out for the indigenous people’s best interests.

David’s Apple Watch beeps, and he glances at it, frowning.

“If you’ll excuse me, Sydney, I must go,” he says, giving me a quick but flat smile. “Just make yourself at home. I’ll go check on your bags and be back in a bit to continue the tour.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece ofpaper, thrusting it into my hands. “Here’s a map to help get you oriented. On the back is a copy of your weekly schedule, though some things are subject to change. And in the drawer of your side table is a watch. You’ll need it.”

Then he turns and strides out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I hold the map and stare at the door for a moment, surprised by his sudden departure. Then I pull open the drawer, taking out a plastic watch with the Madrona Foundation’s logo on it. It’s so cheap and basic that it doesn’t allow for any alarms, which is going to be the bane of my existence, though at least there’s an alarm clock by my bed.

I tuck the watch in my pocket and decide to use the washroom, barely enough room for a small sink and toilet. Above the toilet is a vintage embroidery of what looks like my favorite fungus,Omphalotus nidiformis, its outline done in a bright green as if to show that it has bioluminescence. I stare at it for a moment, strangely entranced. These mushrooms are better known as ghost mushrooms, but they aren’t usually the subject of embroidery or art, and they definitely aren’t endemic to this area. I wonder if when I filled out my application, I had answered a “what’s your favorite fungus?” question and they tried to make the room as personalized as possible. If so, that was awfully nice of them.

I sit down on the toilet and unravel the map, but before I can study it, there’s a knock at my door.

“Coming!” I yell, finishing up and washing my hands before stepping out into my room. I open the door to find a stunning woman, tall with long pale blonde hair, wearing a bright red rain jacket, her legging-clad legs thin and miles long, Burberry plaid boots on her feet.

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