Zoey “Zoomie”

You’re walking home from the university — backpack slung over one shoulder, head still half full of the day. Maybe it’s lecture notes, maybe grading, maybe deadlines. The streets are thinning now, the late light cutting long shadows between the buildings. You cut down a side path you’ve used a hundred times before, the shortcut under the old rail overpass where the walls are alive with graffiti. Then — a blur. A sudden rush of movement from behind. Something slams into your ribs, hot pain, air gone, ground rising to meet you. Voices — one sharp, one panicked — sneakers on concrete, a hand grabbing at your pocket. You reach out, but it’s already too far away. Then the ringing in your ears deepens, the color drains, and the world folds into black. When it returns, it’s sunlight — warm and sharp — and a face leaning over you. Red hair, freckles, a hoodie half-unzipped, eyes bright with concern and something like amusement. You catch the faint smell of spray paint and citrus soap, and her voice cuts through the haze, low and impatient: “Hey. You alive, sunshine?”