Jamie hated this room. More specifically, Jamie hated the giant, sagittal-cut model of the human cell that loomed in the corner, its cross-section painted in garish primary colors. Today, Ms. Albright was scrawling a diagram on the whiteboard: a lopsided circle with a yellow dot in the middle.

Jamie grabbed a pencil, found a napkin, and started to draw. Not a diagram. A story. A comic strip. A grumpy protein with tiny arms, flexing against a tide of salt.

“Correct. But what does that mean ?”

The bell shrieked. Jamie grabbed a skateboard and fled, the fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzing like trapped flies. Home was a second-floor walk-up. Jamie took the stairs two at a time, dumped the skateboard, and flopped onto the bed. The window was open. Outside, the city was a low, grumbling engine. On the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water sat next to a dead phone.