Chapter 6: Figuring Out
The stale air in Damian’s dorm tasted like regret and dust motes dancing in the weak morning light filtering through the navy blue curtains. He blinked awake, stiff-necked on the lumpy mattress. The previous night’s argument hung heavy in the unnaturally tidy room, a sour aftertaste beneath the lingering scent of lemon cleaner. He hadn’t meant to call her a mistake. Not quite. But the words had tumbled out, sharp and final, and the wounded look that had flashed across Dakota’s face – that fleeting crack in her brash armor – replayed in his mind. He’d rolled over, pretending sleep, listening to her quiet, rhythmic breathing from the sleeping bag on the floor. She hadn’t snored.
Now, she was already awake. Sitting cross-legged on his cleared floor near the foot of his bed, she was examining the worn cover of his organic chemistry textbook like it was ancient hieroglyphics. She wore the same grey hoodie and jeans from yesterday, her long black hair a messy cascade over one shoulder. The freckles stood out starkly in the morning light. She looked impossibly real, impossibly there, amidst the remnants of his ordinary life.
"Morning, Grumpy," she said without looking up, her voice rough with sleep but lacking its usual flirty edge. She traced a finger over a complex molecule diagram. "This looks like someone sneezed on the page."
Damian pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyes. The events of the past 24 hours slammed back into him: the vanishing book, the mall, the shopping, the fight. The impossible girl currently dissecting his chemistry homework. "Yeah. Pretty much," he mumbled. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cool, vacuumed carpet. He needed coffee. Badly. More than that, he needed solutions. "Listen, Dakota… about last night…"
She finally looked up, her dark eyes unreadable. "Forget it. Water under the bridge. Or acid under the bridge. Whatever this is." She tapped the textbook. "Point is, I’m still here. You’re still stuck with me. So, what’s the plan, Stan?" She tried for a smirk, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Damian sighed, running a hand through his own messy black hair. The plan. Right. "Okay. First… reality check. You exist. You're… physical." He gestured vaguely at her. "But how? That book poofed. We don't know why or how it made you. And more importantly," he leaned forward, elbows on knees, the worn fabric of his sleep pants rough against his skin, "the world outside this room? It doesn't know you exist."
Dakota tilted her head. "Meaning?"
"Meaning…" Damian struggled to articulate the enormity of it. "Meaning you have no past. No social security number. No birth certificate. No high school transcripts. No medical records. No bank account. No driver’s license. Nothing. You are, legally and bureaucratically speaking, a ghost."
A flicker of unease crossed Dakota’s face, quickly masked by a scoff. "So? I’ll just… make one up. People lie on the internet all the time."
"It’s not that simple!" Damian stood, pacing the small cleared space between his bed and the desk. His agitation made the room feel smaller. "To get an ID, you usually need other IDs, or a birth certificate. To get a birth certificate… you kinda need to have been born! To enroll in anything, get a job, rent an apartment… hell, to even get a library card here, you need student ID and proof of residency! What are you gonna show them? A convincing smile?" The sheer logistical nightmare was dizzying.
The confidence in Dakota’s posture faltered. She uncrossed her legs, tucking them beneath her. "Okay. Okay, fine. It’s… complicated. But I can’t just hide in your dorm room forever, Damian. I need food. Clothes that aren’t bargain bin basics," she plucked at her hoodie, a hint of her old petulance returning, "and frankly, I need people. This," she gestured around the small, unnervingly clean space, "is driving me stir-crazy. And you’re not exactly sparkling company before coffee."
Damian ignored the jab. A thought struck him, cold and unsettling. "What about… biologically? Are you… human? Like, fully? Do you need a doctor? Vaccinations?" The implications were terrifying. What if she got sick? What if she wasn't actually made of… normal stuff?
Dakota blinked, then looked down at her hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. "I… I feel real. I get hungry. Tired. My feet hurt after all that walking yesterday." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Definitely need breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Preferably not the sludge I saw in your mini-fridge."
The mundane needs were grounding, weirdly. Hunger. Coffee. They were problems Damian could almost handle. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. The anger from last night had burned down to a bed of embers, replaced by a weary sense of responsibility. He had done this. Accident or not. "First things first. Coffee. Then… we figure out step one of how Dakota gets to exist in the world."
He grabbed a slightly less wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, turning his back as he changed. The silence stretched, filled only by the rustle of fabric and the distant sound of a garbage truck outside. He could feel her eyes on him, that unnerving scrutiny.
"Step one," she said slowly when he turned back around, her voice quieter now, thoughtful. "What is step one?"
Damian ran a hand over his face. He had no clue. "Information, I guess. We need to understand what we’re dealing with. See if there's… precedent?" He snorted at the absurdity. "Maybe the library? There might be something… obscure."
"Research?" Dakota wrinkled her nose. "Boring. But…" She stood up, stretching, the movement fluid and drawing attention to her figure even in the baggy hoodie. "If coffee’s involved, lead the way. But Damian?" She fixed him with a look that was suddenly serious, devoid of its usual playful challenge. "This whole ‘no past’ thing. It’s… weird. Like walking into a movie halfway through and everyone expects you to know the plot."
He nodded, a pang of unexpected sympathy cutting through his own anxiety. "Yeah. Yeah, it is weird." He grabbed his keys and wallet, the worn leather familiar in his hand. His wallet, containing his own ID, his own life documented. "Come on. Let’s get caffeine. And maybe… see if the campus library has a section on ‘Sudden Existential Emergence for Dummies’."
A ghost of her old smile touched her lips. "Deal. But I’m picking the coffee place. If I’m facing oblivion, I want decent espresso."
Stepping into the hallway felt like stepping onto a stage. Dakota walked beside him, her head held high, exuding a confidence Damian could only envy. But he saw the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted slightly, taking in the other students passing by, cataloging reactions. Was anyone noticing the girl who shouldn’t be there?
They found a bustling cafe just off campus, all chrome and exposed brick, smelling powerfully of roasted beans and steamed milk. The line was long. Damian ordered a large black coffee, the cheapest option. Dakota scanned the ornate chalkboard menu.
"I’ll have a triple-shot caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra hot," she announced brightly to the barista, a bored-looking student with blue-streaked hair.
"That’ll be $6.75," the barista droned.
Dakota turned to Damian expectantly, holding out her hand.
Damian froze. "Uh…"
Her confident expression flickered. Reality check number two. She had no money. No way to pay. The barista raised an eyebrow, tapping the card reader impatiently.
Damian fumbled his wallet open, heat creeping up his neck. "Add it to mine," he mumbled, swiping his debit card. The machine beeped disapprovingly. Insufficient Funds. His stomach dropped. The mall trip had done more damage than he’d thought. He frantically pulled out a crumpled five and some ones, shoving them across the counter. "Just… just the black coffee and…" He looked at Dakota, her bravado visibly crumbling into mortification. "...and her drink. Please."
The barista sighed, took the cash, and handed back a dime. Damian grabbed the coffees, avoiding Dakota’s eyes. He steered her towards a tiny, sticky table in the corner.
"They have oat milk here?" she whispered, staring at her expensive-looking drink like it was a venomous creature. Her cheeks were flushed.
"Yeah," Damian muttered, sipping his bitter coffee. "Welcome to the real world. Step one: Figure out how to get you an identity. Step zero: Figure out how I pay for your oat milk."
She didn't laugh. She stirred her macchiato slowly, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. The confident, flirty girl from yesterday seemed miles away. "This… sucks," she said softly, the words raw and simple.
Damian watched her. Seeing her vulnerability, the sheer logistical impossibility of her existence laid bare over a $6.75 coffee, made his own frustration feel petty. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It really does."
Silence settled between them, filled by the cafe's noisy hum. Dakota took a tentative sip of her drink. "It's good coffee, though," she offered, a fragile attempt at normalcy.
Damian managed a weak smile. "Expensive tastes." He took a deep breath. "Alright. Library. After this. We need answers. Or… we need to figure out how to make some very convincing lies."
Thirty minutes later, they were sequestered in a dusty corner of the university library's reference section. Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. Dakota sat perched on a stool, poking listlessly at an ancient-looking microfiche machine. Damian was hunched over a public access computer terminal, the glow illuminating his tired face.
He typed: "Creating new identity". The results were depressingly unhelpful: conspiracy forums, dubious legal advice, and links to spy novels. He tried "Spontaneous human generation" and got redirected to religious texts and fringe science websites discussing the origin of life.
"Useless," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "This is impossible. How do you just… fabricate an entire person?"
Dakota swiveled on her stool. "Maybe… maybe there's a record? Somewhere? From the book?" Her voice lacked conviction.
"The book vanished, remember?" Damian sighed. "Poof. Gone. Leaving… you." He clicked back to the search bar, frustration mounting. On a whim, fueled by desperation, he typed her name into the university's student directory search: Dakota [Last Name?]
He had no last name for her. He paused. What was her last name? Did she even have one? The form hadn't asked for it. The thought was chilling. He typed just Dakota. Nothing. Of course. He tried a different angle. He navigated to the campus ID photo database. Maybe… maybe the system glitched? Maybe she appeared somewhere?
He typed in his own name: Damian Vance. His student ID photo popped up instantly – slightly awkward, bad lighting, the black hair messy. He stared at it, then at Dakota sitting beside him. The resemblance, now that he looked for it, was uncanny. Same dark eyes, same jawline beneath her softer features, the same slight curve to the upper lip.
He hesitated. What was he hoping for? He clicked the 'edit' function on his own profile, a feature meant for updating contact info. It was a long shot, a stupid shot. He clicked on the photo field. 'Replace Image.'
Dakota leaned closer, curiosity overcoming her funk. "What are you doing?"
"Seeing if the universe glitched," Damian muttered. He hit ‘browse’ and pointed the cursor towards the webcam embedded in the monitor. "Look here," he instructed Dakota.
She frowned but turned her face towards the small lens. Damian clicked 'Capture'.
The screen flickered. It tried to search for her, but failed.