"Her clipboard was deadlier than a sword."
The aftermath of Silver's father's letter had left her feeling raw and exposed, like a nerve ending suddenly stripped of its protective covering. She'd spent the night curled in her narrow Yale-issued bed, clutching the Georgia-scented pages against her chest while the February wind rattled their Gothic windows and the ancient stones of their tower seemed to press closer around her emotional breakdown.
Sleep had come in fragments, interrupted by dreams where Eli's voice echoed through empty hockey rinks and Carroway's smooth words twisted into accusations she couldn't quite remember upon waking. By dawn, she felt like she'd been hit by a Zamboni—every muscle ache from her midnight practice session had crystallized into sharp reminders of her limitations.
