Chapter 1

Matthew Hargrove stepped out of his dad’s beat-up Ford pickup, his boots scuffing the pavement of the North Campus parking lot near Burge Hall. The drive from the farm in Van Buren county to Iowa City usually took an hour and a half, but today it felt like crossing into another world.

Shading his eyes from the relentless August sun overhead, he gazed up for a moment at the imposing brick dormitory across the street—and at the students hauling bins and duffel bags into their new home for the school year. He turned and slowly walked to the back of the truck.

“You sure you don’t want me to stick around and help?” his dad called from the driver’s seat, leaning out the window. His voice was gruff, but Matthew clocked the flicker of unease in his eyes. Tom Hargrove wasn’t one for long goodbyes—or cities, for that matter.

“Nah, we’re good,” Matthew said, grabbing his suitcase with one hand from the cargo bed. It was an old, battered thing—the leather straps frayed but sturdy. “You’ve got chores waiting back home. Besides, you’ll get a ticket if you park here. Tell Mom I’ll call her tonight.” He waggled his iPhone in the other hand as if to emphasize the point.

His dad nodded, tipping the brim of his John Deere cap. “All right, son. Don’t get too big for your britches up here and forget where you come from, you hear?”

Matthew grinned. “Not a chance.”

Tom winked at him, put the truck into gear and backed out. As he pulled away, he tossed Matthew one last wave, leaving a faint cloud of diesel fumes trailing behind.

Matthew stood still for a moment—suitcase handle clutched in his sweaty hand—watching him disappear down the street. The weight of leaving home began to settle like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

After two years in junior college, he’d transferred to the University of Iowa—a biochemistry major with dreams of getting into medical school. It seemed almost out of reach for a kid who’d spent his summers baling hay and mucking stalls.

He heaved a sigh and trudged across the parking lot before climbing the steps to the entrance.

*

The lobby was packed with students waiting to get their room assignments for move-in day. In one corner a harried RA was waving a sign like a white flag—on it was written “A-H.” Matthew wound his way through the crowd, checked in, and got the key to his room. He then headed slowly up the stairs, his suitcase thumping against his leg as he went.

The door was already ajar when he reached it, a sliver of light spilling into the dim hallway. He nudged it open with his shoulder and stepped inside.

It was a small, utilitarian space—two narrow beds, two desks, a shared window overlooking Clinton Street. One side was already claimed. An unzipped duffel sat on the bed, clothes half-folded and spilling out, a stack of books teetering beside a sleek laptop. Taped to the wall was a poster featuring a neon-lit cityscape, captioned in some sort of Japanese or perhaps Chinese characters.

Was it Tokyo? Hong Kong? He had no idea.

“Uh, hello?” he called out.

No response. The room was empty. His new roomie must’ve stepped out.

Matthew tossed his stuff onto the unclaimed bed and started unpacking—a few flannel shirts, some faded jeans, a battered copy of Lehninger’s Principles of Biochemistry he’d scored secondhand.

He was hanging a photo of his family—Mom, Dad, and his little sisters Jessie and Grace, all smiles in front of the barn—when he heard someone enter the room behind him.

He turned to see a slender Asian guy about his age, maybe an inch or two shorter than Matthew’s middle-of-the-road five-foot-ten. He had dark, neck-length hair in a casual, unruly style and was sporting a black hoodie, with a plastic bag from the campus bookstore slung over one shoulder.

“Oh . . . hi!” he said. “So . . . we’re roommates, huh?”

“Sure looks that way. I’m Matthew—Matthew Hargrove.”

“Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Alex Kim.”

He smiled and stuck out a hand. Matthew shook it—his grip warm and measured. Alex tossed the bag on his bed and glanced at the family picture Matthew had put up on his side of the room.

“So, where’re you from?” he asked.

“About ninety minutes south of here, a farm near Keosauqua. What about you?”

“Chicago,” Alex said, unzipping his hoodie and shrugging it over his head before dropping it next to the bag. “Well, the suburbs, technically. Schaumburg. My parents moved there from Korea before I was born. They’re from Seoul originally.”

Matthew nodded, trying to picture it.

Korea?Wow.

Chicago was more than a five-hour drive from the farm—but Seoul? That might as well have been another planet.

“What’s your major?” he asked.

“Computer science. You?”

“Biochemistry. Pre-med track.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious. You really want to be a doctor or just torture yourself with chemistry for grins?”

“Little of both maybe,” Matthew replied with a laugh. “How about you? Gonna go into game design or what?”

“Nah, more like security stuff. Keeping the bad guys out of networks.” Alex paused, then added, “And figuring out how they get in.”

“That sounds intense.”

“Says the guy dissecting cadavers next year.”

“Fair point,” Matthew replied with a nod.

He held his gaze steady for a second longer, a bemused look on his face. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected in a roommate—maybe some loud frat guy or a bookworm who’d shush him for breathing too loud—but Alex seemed normal so far.

He also had a very pleasant smile—a fact that Matthew found vaguely disconcerting. He gave his head a little shake as if to clear it.

Alex turned back to his bed, dug through the bookstore bag and pulled out a pack of ramen. “They got a microwave down the hall in the common room. I was gonna heat this up,” he said,  “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nope. Been riding with my dad all afternoon and just got here a few minutes ago. Ramen sounds good—I’ll help you eat it if you want to split it.”

“Deal,” Alex said. “But fair warning, I spice it up. Hope you can handle it.”

Matthew gave Alex a skeptical look. “My mom makes chili that could strip paint. Try me.”

Alex cocked one eyebrow. “Chili, huh? Well, let’s see how you do with this, farm boy,” he said dryly.

“Farm boy?” Matthew shot back. “All right . . . bet, Mr. Chicago.”

They both laughed at this as they headed out the door and down the hall—debating loudly which one of them had, in fact, eaten the hottest chili peppers ever—as the sounds of move-in day echoed all around them.

*

The first few weeks passed quietly. Matthew and Alex gradually adapted to the routine of student life on campus—and to the daily rhythm of living in close quarters with one another in the dorm.

Matthew’s internal clock, set by years of pre-dawn chores, would awaken him at six a.m., even when his first class—Intro to Biochemistry—wasn’t until nine. He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Alex’s steady breathing from the other side of the room. Eventually, he’d get up and go make coffee in one of the hall’s communal pots just to have something to do.

Alex, on the other hand, was not a morning person. His alarm would begin blaring at seven-thirty, a grating electronic chirp he’d slap silent before rolling over for ten more minutes. Finally, he’d drag himself upright in bed—hair a mess, hoodie askew over his pajamas—and fix his bright-eyed roomie with a withering look.

“You’re a freak, Hargrove. You know that? Who’s up this early without a gun to their head?”

“Farm habit,” Matthew replied with a chuckle. “Rise and shine, Kim. You’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

Alex fired his pillow across the room—and Matthew playfully swatted it to the floor.

*

Classes were a mixed bag. Matthew’s pre-med load was heavy—Intro to Biochemistry, Calculus I, and a gen-ed psych course that by contrast felt like a breather. Alex’s computer science slate was equally challenging—Programming Fundamentals, Discrete Math, and a random lit class he’d picked for what he hoped would be easy credits.

They fell into the habit of meeting for lunch every day at the Iowa Memorial Union—a sprawling student hub with a food court, coffee shop, and enough noise to drown out the stress of constant studying. They’d grab sandwiches and drinks while trading gripes about class assignments, pop quizzes—or how the unseasonably cool wind cut through their jackets walking across campus.

Their casual back-and-forth would continue throughout the noon hour, the sound swallowed by the chatter of passing students. Matthew found Alex easy to talk to—their conversations far-ranging and effortless—like they’d known each other for years.

Evenings at the dorm were typically dominated by textbooks and takeout—interspersed with laundry runs to the basement, where Matthew taught Alex the subtle art of not shrinking his shirts; late-night vending machine raids when their snack stash ran dry, and good-natured arguments over whose turn it was to sweep the crumbs off the floor.

Sometimes, Alex would set up a hot plate in the corner—a bit of rule-bending Matthew didn’t argue with—and cook Korean ramen that left the room smelling like a spice bazaar. They’d sit cross-legged on their beds, slurping noodles and swapping stories instead of studying.

Alex had a knack for pulling tales out of thin air—his brother’s dumb stunts in high school, or a trip to Seoul when he was ten that ended with him lost in a market. Matthew would counter with farm lore: the time Jessie fell into a mud pit chasing a calf—or how one time, while goofing around, he’d driven the tractor into a ditch and spent a week grounded for his troubles. The hours would slip by, until one of them—usually Alex—yawned and called it a night.

Weekends were looser. They hit the Pedestrian Mall late one evening, splitting fries at Micky’s Irish Pub, watching drunk frat guys stumble by. Another Saturday, they took a road trip in Alex’s hand-me-down Hyundai—a sun-faded,  beat-up SUV from his older brother—just to get out of Iowa City for a couple of hours and see the countryside.

At the end of September, Matthew’s folks brought his old red Toyota pickup from the farm when they came for the homecoming football game. His dad drove it to Iowa City—with his mom Ellen following behind—so he could leave the truck for Matthew and ride back with her.

*

Through it all, though, Matthew kept a secret close—one he didn’t share in late-night talks or weekend road trips. When he was at community college in Keokuk, he picked up a hobby that soon turned serious.

It started with a program that came pre-installed on his MacBook—GarageBand. He’d sit in his room—headphones on, layering chords and beats—scribbling lyrics in a notebook he hid under the mattress. He wrote songs about endless fields, wide-open skies, and the ache of something he was afraid to name.

He was good at it—better than he’d admit—and it was his alone. Most importantly, he didn’t talk about it to anyone because then they’d want to hear what he was working on and that would just be too embarrassing. But, he kept up with it, even now.

Alex would sometimes step out to the floor lounge with his laptop, leaving Matthew little pockets of solitude. He’d wait until the room was still, then pull out his headphones—a pair of beat-up Sennheisers—and fire up GarageBand.

The screen glowed with tracks stacked like a puzzle: an acoustic guitar riff he’d cobbled together from a sampler plug-in, a drum loop he’d tweaked, his vocals low and rough—recorded through the crappy built-in mic. He’d sing under his breath, keeping the volume low so it wouldn’t leak past the door.

One night, he was deep into a new track when Alex came back sooner than expected. Matthew yanked the headphones off, slamming the laptop shut as the door opened.

“Still up?” Alex said, tossing his bag down, oblivious. “Thought you’d be sawing logs by now.”

“I was . . . messing around,” Matthew muttered, shoving the laptop under his pillow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Alex didn’t push, just nodded as he sat down on his bed, scrolling his phone.

Matthew’s heart thudded, his secret safe—for now.

*

His music remained his shadowy companion. Sometimes, he’d sing fragments of tunes under his breath without even realizing it. Once, while they were hunched over their desks studying, Alex caught him doing it.

He turned to Matthew, squinting, and asked, “Whatcha humming?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing . . . random noise,” Matthew muttered, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair and returning to his notes.

Alex thought he seemed a bit defensive about the whole thing, so he decided it was best to let it go. He closed his laptop, switched off his desk lamp, and got ready for bed.   

Later that night, as Alex snored softly across the room, Matthew sat at his desk—staring into space, bottom lip pinched between thumb and forefinger—wondering if this was what being roommates was supposed to feel like.

Friendship, sure.

But something more was lingering at the edges.

Something he couldn’t quite name.