I spent the rest of the day doing my best impression of a normal college student.

It was almost scary how easy it was. I sat through my morning classes, took notes, even answered a question in Poli Sci without my voice cracking. The whole time, my lower back ached with that phantom weight, and every time I shifted in my chair, a little jolt of electricity shot up my spine from the thing that was definitely, absolutely not a vagina anymore. But nobody knew. Nobody even looked at me twice.

By the time the last class let out, I'd almost convinced myself everything was fine.

Then I walked toward the biology building, and the knot in my stomach came back.

I stopped outside the lab door and pressed my ear against it. Nothing. No clinking of glassware, no keyboard clatter, no movement. I tried the handle.

Locked.

Ms. Gibson never locked her door during work hours. She was one of those professors who treated the lab like a second living room, always leaving it open for students who wanted to drop by and chat about their projects. If she'd locked it, something was wrong.

I pulled out my key ring. I'd had a copy of the FFA coop key for months, but I'd never had one for the lab itself. That was new — she'd handed it to me that morning, pressed it into my palm with this nervous, tight smile and said, "In case you need me."

I hadn't thought about it until now. I slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

The smell hit me first.

It was like walking into a barn. No, not a barn — a chicken coop. That thick, warm, ammonia-and-straw smell that clung to your clothes and hair and seemed to have a physical body of its own. My nose wrinkled, and for a second I thought the FFA coop had somehow been relocated into the building.

Then I saw the floor.

There was chicken shit everywhere.

Real chicken shit. Globs and splatters of white paste, some fresh and glistening, some dried into crusty, cracked discs. It was scattered across the linoleum like someone had taken a paintbrush and flicked it around the room. On the floor, on the baseboards, on the leg of a nearby stool. The air was thick with it.

My eyes traveled …