The student council doesn't meet the following Tuesday. Three out of the four members claimed to be indisposed, leaving little point in the fourth member, Solomon, to show up to an empty office. In the group chat, Hafsa reported a stomach bug, Desmond, a cold, and Brian, a sudden trip to the city. He doubts the sincerity of these excuses, but the secretary is never the type to point out any potential elephants in rooms. Especially given his status with the president. Instead, he spends the remainder of his day studying and daydreaming of prom.

Desmond is not nearly so carefree, however. Though his cold was a lie, he is suffering from a fever far worse than a simple virus. Suited up in his olive green singlet, he paces around the subterranean ram fighting training room, glaring at the sweaty bovids all lined up in a row.

"Fucking hopeless…" He grumbles, shooting a look towards Marcel who flinches. "Is your plan to embarrass us during nationals? If so, I gotta congratulate you, you've outdone yourself."

The freshman Gerenuk, Derek, leans in to whisper to Marcel. "Is he… always like this?"

"He's somehow worse than usual." The springbok whispers back.

"What are you two gossiping about?!" Desmond snaps. "Keep the flirting for after practice, got it?!"

Both bovids gulp.

"H-hey, Cap," Elmer speaks up with a nervous chuckle. "Are you sure you're well enough to fight again? How's that arm?"

"Worry about yourself first, beef jerky. Sitting around and waiting for my arm to get better won't do a thing."

"I'm not beef jerky…"

"Alright!" The Jacob sheep bleats, causing the other males to jolt up in shock. "I want to see one-on-one fights, partner up and let's see who is the least shit! Jordie with Bucky, Derek with Marcel, Elmer with Barry. Let's get a move on!"

As the horned team members scurry to find their partner and spar, Elmer tiptoes close to Desmond and ducks to meet his gaze. "Cap, we're all really glad you're back, but could you take it easy with the new blood? They've really improved since last time."

Desmond only gives an unamused expression. "Rookies need tough love, especially starting out. They'll get over it once we win nationals."

"But—"

"Go to Barry and get started. I'm gonna do some drills and then make the rounds."

Not waiting for Elmer's response, Desmond stomps off to the tackling bag and without a moment to lose, begins furiously attacking the helpless bag of sand. One would think the ram is fighting for his life.

Elmer experiences an unfortunate moment of deja vu. Last year, the captain had a similar storm of bad mood during summer break. But after his chat with Leslie, he seemed to have calmed down. An idea pops into his head. After sputtering an excuse to go to the bathroom, he hurries inside the locker room area, digs through his bag for his phone, and dials up Leslie's number. After a few beeps, he hears the urial's familiar cadence.

"Peewee?" He asks in a groggy voice.

"Les! How are ya, bud?"

"I was taking a nap."

"At 5:30PM?"

"That's college life for you."

"Well, I'd love to catch up," Elmer hastens. "But I kind of need your expertise. We got a problem."

"Did Marcel get his head stuck in the stairwell railing again? Okay, go get a stick of butter and a rag—"

"No, no, he knows how to wiggle out now. The problem is the cap."

"Four Horns? Is he okay?"

"Well, he's acting weird again. All mean and violent. You should see how he's manhandling the tackling bag. It makes me wanna call the police."

Leslie doesn't respond immediately. After a few seconds, he lets out a sigh.

"I probably know what's going on. I'll call him after practice and talk some sense into him."

"Really? Gee, thanks a million, Les!"

"It's what I get for sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

"Take a seat, son," The worn iguana gestures at an equally worn school chair. "It's a real treat getting to see you again."

"Thank you, Mr. Hayes, sir." Brian obliges and sits himself opposite to his former teacher.

His old math classroom remains completely unchanged from his own time studying there, from the faded posters taped on the wall right down to Mr. Hayes' signature red pen taking up sole residence in his pen holder; the only pen he used to grade tests. Brian had sat down from across the iguana's desk many times before to discuss test results and homework assignments, for Mr. Hayes always insisted on speaking to him privately.

"You think much better when you're not surrounded by those other numbskulls." He would say. He was the type to play favorites, but Brian was his favorite.

"So how's Noah's Arc treating you?" The iguana croaks. "Heard there was a big scandal going on. Some kind of predation?"

"Yeah, well… It's kind of a long story."

"Isn't it always. You best take care of yourself, son. You've always been kind of an airhead when it comes to these things, we don't want you ending up in someone's gullet!"

He wheezes out a cackle. The rock dove smiles politely, despite not finding the joke remotely funny. Mr. Hayes always had a morbid sense of humor.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself. What brings you down here?" The reptile asks.

"Ah well, sir…" Brian scratches his neck feathers sheepishly. "I know you're retiring soon. At the end of the year, right?"

The teacher raises a scaled brow. "I wouldn't call that soon. It's only February, son."

"But still, after all of your years teaching, it must seem right around the corner."

"I'd be a lot more chipper if I had the pension to show for it." The old lizard looks at the bird in suspicion. "What's it to ya, anyways? You coming for my job?"

"Ha ha, I'm afraid not, sir." The teenager wrings his hands nervously. "I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me, is all."

Mr. Hayes scoffs. "I didn't do a dadgum thing. Just yelled at ya until you got better grades is what I did. You did all the heavy lifting, so pat yourself on the back, why don't ya?"

Brian interjects with a serious expression. "I wouldn't be who I am today without your guidance. You were the first person in my entire life who believed in me. Who thought I could be… something other than just a stupid pigeon. And I… you have no idea what that meant to me. So I just wanted to thank you for that, really. No matter what, I'm glad you were my teacher."

For the first time, Mr. Hayes couldn't think of a response, sarcastic or otherwise. His dry lips part in surprise, revealing yellowed jagged teeth. He tugs on his wrinkly dewlap, trying to formulate a response.

"You, eh…" He rasps after a while. "You aren't gonna try to… top yourself, are you?"

"Top myself…?"

"You know… go down the path of least resistance…?" He slides his thumb in a slashing motion across his dewlap with a choking noise.

"You mean sui- No! Of course not!" The pigeon exclaims, jumping out of his seat. "Where on earth did you get that idea?!"

"You were getting all sappy on me!" Mr Hayes hacks defensively. "Going on about gratitude and this'n'that! You're not close enough to graduating to start reminiscing like that, son! Why don't you come back here with a damn diploma during my retirement party?! That'll be the thank you I want."

Brian's beady eyes panic at the mention of graduation. "The thing is… I don't know if I'll be graduating. I'm thinking of leaving Noah's Arc. So I wanted to thank you irregardless."

This only further angers the geriatric iguana. "I oughta wring your neck! All that work into getting in that damn school and now you wanna leave during your senior year?! What classes are you failing? I'll get in touch with the best tutors in the city if that'll snap you out of it."

"I-I'm not failing any classes! It's not about that!" The pigeon protests.

"Then what is it?" Mr. Hayes insists. "Lack of funding? I'll insist on a full scholarship."

"I already have a full scholarship."

"Did you knock up some female? You're gonna need that degree if you wanna provide, son."

"Absolutely not that!"

"Afraid of predation, then? Hell, I'll look into bodyguards."

"N-none of that!"

"So you aren't failing any classes, you have a full scholarship, you're not a baby daddy, and you're not scared of predation." The teacher repeats. "Maybe I'm the dense one, then. What the hell am I missing here? What would possess you to drop out now?"

Brain falters. His gaze drops to the teacher's desk scratched surface in shame. "I… I can't tell you why. But if I stayed, it would ruin everything. Either my life, or my friends'."

Mr. Hayes' expression remains volcanically irate but he seems to digest the teenager's words. "I don't know what you got yourself caught up in, Brian. I assume the teachers there can't help you with this?"

"…No, sir."

"And your family?"

"…No, sir."

"Not a single soul can help you out of this?"

"…No, sir."

He takes a moment to consider this.

"Well, now I know you're bullshitting me."

"Huh?!"

"Pardon my French. But now I know you haven't thought this all the way through."

"But sir—"

"Hush up." Mr Hayes says, and with a strained groan, pushes himself up from his seat to trudge towards his trusty blackboard. With a stick of chalk pinched in between his clawed fingers, he begins tapping away at the board, until he writes up a linear equation.

(2x - 1)/ 5 + 4 = (x + 5) / 2 + 1

"Solve that for me, why don't you."

Brian considers protesting or at least asking why, but he knows better than to talk back to that cranky old iguana. Instead he skims through the equation, and after a brief moment, responds with "Three."

"Good. This is middle school stuff, so I expected as much."

He erases the equation and just as quickly jots down another on.

10 + 6x = 15 + 9x - 3x

"Find the solution."

All hopes of arguing abandoned, the pigeon obliges once more. But his brows furrow upon further analyzing the equation.

"This has no solution, sir." Brian concludes. "It's a false statement."

"Sure is. Do you get it now?"

From the look of the young bird's completely blank expression, how teacher surmises he did not get it at all.

"Life is just like math, son." Mr. Hayes elaborates. "Everything has a solution. Sometimes it's a really clear one, but most of the times, problems are like the one you just solved. No solution. But if you wrote down 'no solution' on your math test, you'd get full marks. You know why that is?"

Brian doesn't respond.

"It's because sometimes, having no solution is the solution. If you can fix the problem, then don't worry about it. But if you can't do a thing about it, then don't worry about it either!"

He cackles, letting out a phlegmy cough in between breaths.

"When you told me that nobody could help you, that's when I knew you weren't getting the full situation. I remember the first time I gave you a false statement. Oh, you got so confused. But remember what you did back then? You raised your hand and you called on me for help. You knew what to do back then, why did you suddenly forget now?"

The iguana lumbers to the still seated bird and gives him a hearty pat on the back. "Most solutions in life come from others. So reassess that equation, and if it still comes back false, well… sometimes you just gotta take your lumps and move on."

Brian looks up at his teacher. "I gotta say, Mr. Hayes… you've always been very good at explaining."

Hafsa is holed up in her room, not suffering from a stomach bug but certainly feeling ill. She prides herself on her professionalism and ability to separate personal matters from business, but even she has her limits. She can't possibly be in the same room as Solomon. At least not today. Through sheer luck, she has the dorm to herself thanks to Molly being held up in detention for drawing a pentagram on her desk with a permanent marker. And the serval could certainly use some privacy right now.

She's so hungry. She's felt an obnoxious, constant pang of hunger ever since Sunday night. It picks at her sanity through classes and conversations, gnaws at her stomach even mid meal, and scratches at her skin like poison ivy.

She tosses an empty cellophane wrapper on the floor. It lands with a delicate crinkle, next to half a dozen others similarly abandoned. She wipes her mouth in disgust.

It's no use. The energy bars aren't working at all.

She's still hungry. So hungry.

Hafsa shakes her head as if trying to fling off the very thought.

I'm not hungry. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. Stop thinking about it. I'm not hungry. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about his blood. Stop thinking about what it tasted like. Stop salivating. I'm not hungry.

The serval tosses herself off of the disheveled bed and begins to pace around the room, hoping the physical movement will help her think straight.

Why now? Is this simply a random craving? One she's doomed to be burdened with from having tasted flesh? Why now when she has so many other things to think about? Like Solomon.

Solomon… It's finally time. She finally has to commit; to make a decision instead of skirting around the issue. She wants to go out with him. Of course she does. She knows it's the correct decision.

God, she's so hungry.

Hafsa quickly slaps herself.

No. No you're not. You're just nervous. You've never been in a relationship before. Sure, many males have made far more passionate proclamations of love in the past, but now, you actually like him back. Of course you're nervous.

Sweet, handsome Solomon. She couldn't be in better hands than his. When prom comes, she'll say yes. It's the correct decision.

Her stomach growls.

She freezes in place, mid step. Shuddering, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, though it comes out in a quiver.

A large tear rolls down her cheek, darkening her fur along its path. More follow, staining trails of their own until they drip down her jaw onto the rug below. Her next breath leaves as a choked sob. Her body wilts. Dejectedly, she trudges back to the bunk bed and slinks inside Molly's covers, too weak to even climb up to her upper bunk.

God damn it.

Damn that sheep. Damn his sharp tongue, and his quick wit, and his piercing eyes. Damn his fragile hands and how they make her want to hold them. Damn his soft wool and how they make her want to melt into it. Damn his smiling lips and how it makes her want to kiss them. Damn that stupid, cranky, pint-sized, infuriating, contentious, meat-headed, wonderful sheep.

No matter what, she can't say it. She can't think it. Because if she does, it's all over. She can't think about why she's hungry, even though not-so-deep-down, the answer lurks within, all too obvious, begging to be freed. Acting on that hunger would mean the end of her life. Her dreams and ambitions, extinguished in an instant. Not to mention the risk it would pose to him. No matter what, she would have to die hungry.

A new wave of tears gush forth. Hafsa desperately wants to heave out another sob, howl in pain, scream her frustrations onto her roommate's pillow. Anything to expel the soul-consuming desire that ignites every atom in her body and every single memory of the animal that cused her with such yearning. Things would have been so much easier if she had never met him. But that too is a thought she can't bring herself to believe fully. So instead, she swallows the lump in her throat.

Things are normal. And she is very much not hungry.

AN: Thank you for reading, and for waiting! I am finally settled into the new country though things are still pretty busy. But I still like to make time to write. It's been a while since I've written an angsty, moody chapter. Alas, when your protagonists are repressed teenagers, this is inevitable.

Next chapter is prom, so I'll try to go all out.

Take it easy and stay safe.