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 up from 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 caught 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 hand-me-down, its 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 phone in the other hand.
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 on a farm.
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 his key. He then made his way up the stairs, his suitcase thumping against his leg as he went.
The door to his room was 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 extra-long twin beds, two desks, a shared window overlooking Clinton Street. On the wall to the immediate left was a door that led to a small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. No shower, though. Those were in a room at the end of the hall that everybody on the floor shared.
The bed on the left was already claimed. An unzipped duffel sat upon it, clothes half-folded and spilling out, a stack of underwear 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 roommate 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 his own five-foot-ten. He had dark hair in a wolf cut and wore a black T-shirt, with a plastic bag bearing an Iowa Hawkeyes logo 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, plopping down next to his 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. Chicago was more than a five-hour drive from the farm—but Seoul? That might as well have been another planet.
“Well, I guess that explains the poster,” he said, smiling as he gestured to the wall behind Alex and sat down on his own bed. “So, what’s your major?”
“Computer science. You?”
“Biochemistry. Pre-med track.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “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.”
“Wow. That sounds intense.”
“Says the guy dissecting cadavers next year.”
“Fair point,” Matthew replied with a nod, considering his new roommate for a moment.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—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 rather charming smile, a realization that Matthew found vaguely disconcerting. He gave his head a little shake as if to clear it.
Alex turned and dug through the bag at his side, pulling out a pack of ramen and a bottle of hot sauce. “They got a microwave down the hall in the common room. I was gonna heat this up. 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 like to spice it up. Hope you can handle it.” He gave the hot sauce a challenging shake.
Matthew shot him 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 got up and headed out the door together—debating loudly which one of them had, in fact, eaten the hottest chili peppers ever—as the sounds of move-in day echoed up and down the hall.
