“To use King Colin’s john.” He scowls at me. “Or would you rather I piss downstairs in the sink?”

I quickly hold my arms out in a welcoming gesture. “It’s all yours, bro.”

2-D Animation is as fun as I expected it to be. Afterward, I leave the computer lab with my two buddies, Kenji and Ray. Since they’re major gamers, they were at the top of my list for beta testers, and they can’t stop talking about Legion 48 as we head outside.

“It’s brilliant, Fitz,” Kenji is saying as he zips up his parka.

I pull a black wool hat over my head and shove my hands into a pair of gloves. I feel like January is never going to end. I swear it’s like the planet goes into some fucked-up time loop every year to make January a hundred days long. And then the loop snaps apart and the rest of the year flies by in about four minutes.

“Brilliant,” Ray echoes.

We push open the exit doors and are greeted by a gust of icy wind. Frickin’ January.

Despite the cold, I can’t contain a burst of excitement. “You’re really not having any major issues so far?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Come on, there’s got to be something.”

We descend the wide steps toward the frost-covered sidewalk. The Fine Arts buildings are clustered together on the west side of campus, so almost all of my studios and lecture halls are located here.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing,” Ray says.

“Nada,” Kenji agrees.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and frown at the words Private Caller.

Kenji and Ray are still engaged in an animated conversation about the game, so I signal that I’m out and they take off walking.

“Please hold for Kamal Jain,” a brisk female voice snaps in my ear.

I freeze for a beat, then give a hasty laugh. “Right. Nice try—”

But she’s already clicked off.

This has to be a joke. Yes, I did apply for a position at Orcus Games, the billion-dollar game studio owned by legendary geek-god Kamal Jain. But if this woman actually works for Orcus, I highly doubt she’d be transferring me to the founder and president of the company. That’s like Mark Zuckerberg taking customer services calls at Facebook.

I’m half a second from hanging up when a new voice fills the line.

“Colin, hi! Kamal. So I’m sitting here looking at your résumé. Gonna be honest with you, Colin—you were a no for me.”

My pulse quickens. Either I’m hallucinating, or that’s seriously Kamal Jain on the line. I’ve seen hundreds of interviews with the guy, and I’d recognize his fast-paced, nasally voice anywhere.

“NCAA hockey? I won’t lie, brother. It was an easy pass, on account of the jock thing. I mean, most jocks I’ve met don’t even know the difference between Java and C-Sharp.”

I’m glad he’s not in front of me so he can’t see the frown that creases my lips. I’m sick to death of the dumb jock stereotype. It’s so archaic, not to mention completely false. Some of the most intelligent people I know happen to be athletes.

I keep my mouth shut, though. This is Kamal Jain, for chrissake. He designed his first multiplayer RPG at the age of fifteen, self-published it, and then saw it take off to rocket levels of popularity. He sold the game for five hundred million dollars, used the money to start his own company, and has been raking in the cash since then. This kind of trajectory in the gaming industry is virtually unheard of. The creator of Minecraft has nothing on this guy.

“But one of my interns came to me this morning, told me I needed to play this game of yours. Got to tell you, Colin, as far as code goes, it’s more simplistic than I’d like—though let’s get real, to me anything is simplistic if I haven’t coded it myself. What got me? The assets. Oh lordy lordy, the graphics! All you?”

It’s hard to keep up with Jain’s rambling, but somehow I manage to answer, “Yes. All me.”

“Visual Arts major at Briar.”

“Double major,” I correct. “Computer programming as well.”

“Ambitious. I like it. Don’t like the hockey background much, but I assume you’re done with that, seeing as how you’re applying to work for my studio. No plans to go pro after graduation?”

“No, sir.”

A high-pitched laugh pierces my ear. “Sir? Give up that habit right now, Colin. Call me Kamal, or KJ. I prefer KJ, but whatever makes you more comfortable. All right. Let me look at my calendar.” Papers rustle over the line. “I’m in Manhattan next Friday. I’ll tell the pilot to make a stop in Boston first. We’ll meet at the Ritz.”

“Meet?” I echo in confusion.

“I personally interview every potential designer, and I do it face-to-face. You’re on a shortlist with six other candidates. This will be competitive,” he warns, but there’s a note of glee in his voice. I get the feeling he might enjoy pitting candidates against each other. “So, two weeks from now. Friday. Yes?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. Working for Orcus Games would be a goddamn dream. It was my top choice, and I honestly didn’t expect an interview. Like he said, it’s competitive. Everyone wants to work for Kamal Jain, self-made billionaire.

“Good. I’ll have my assistant email you the details. Looking forward to meeting you, brother.”

“Looking forward to it too.”

I’m shaking my head in amazement as I hang up. Did that really just happen? I have a job interview with Kamal Jain?

Holy shit.

I open my text window to send a message to Morris, but before I can start typing, my phone rings again. Not a private caller this time, but my father.

As always, uneasiness starts circling my gut. You never know what you’re gonna get with my folks.

“Colin,” he barks when I pick up. Dad has this brusque, no-nonsense way of speaking that comes off as rude if you don’t know him, and grating if you do.

“Hey, what’s up? I only have a sec before my next class,” I lie.

“I won’t take up much of your time. Just wanted to tell you that I’m bringing Lucille to your home game this weekend. She’s been dying to see you play.”

Lucille is my dad’s new girlfriend, though I don’t imagine they’ll date for more than a few months. The old man goes through women with a speed that is both impressive and disgusting.

On the flip side of that, Mom claims to have not dated anyone since the divorce, and that was twelve years ago. And while Dad has no qualms bragging about his conquests to me, Mom equally has no issue bemoaning her life of celibacy. It’s Dad’s fault, of course. He shattered her trust in all of mankind, emphasis on the man. And according to him, Mom is to blame for his revolving door of girlfriends, because he too can never trust again.

My folks are exhausting.

“Nice. Looking forward to seeing her.” Still lying.

For a moment, I consider telling him about my interview with Kamal Jain, but I swiftly decide that needs to be done in a joint email to both my parents. If I tell one before the other, the world will end.

“Will your mother be at the game?” He says the word mother as if it’s poisonous. “If so, you should warn her that I’m bringing Lucille.”