Within the folder, I found a haphazard mix of .mp3 and .exe files accompanied by a plethora of folders, their names seemingly random—some just strings of numbers, others simple words.

Tour of France, Side, 022.1999, Ip Man.

I selected the one labeled "Side." Inside was an Excel file stripped of any meaningful name, dated with various entries. I opened it. A list of URLs greeted me, each dated, some highlighted in red.

I clicked on one at random: 06.02.2010. After a brief loading time, an image of a familiar street appeared. Squinting, I recognized it as the route I took to university. The street was bustling with people. Zooming in three times, I noticed a familiar figure. I winced.

Someone was staring at the camera. Blurry, but there he was—Leon, in deep blue shorts and an olive-green sport shirt, his hair a champagne blonde, more like beeline honey, long but not shoulder-length, a total nonchalant surfer look. This was Route 3 at the garden square. I knew it by the distinct tiles on the ground.

The dates each had four pictures. I quickly checked the second and third images. The camera angle shifted left—my left, at least. In the corner of the screen, something that looked fleshy. It seemed so odd, was that plumage?

I grimaced, closing the tabs hastily. The Excel file ended on 06.05.2010. There were more dates on top, but I didn't scroll enough to check the most recent date. I clicked on the last entry, but the screen remained black.

Returning to the document folder, I chose "022.1999." A file caught my eye: D.RED. It looked like a contract or agreement papers. I skimmed through it quickly. It mentioned the renovation of a floor damaged by flooding. The document went on to state, in bureaucratic jargon, that there was no need to fully decorate or finish a section of the building as it was marked for a future end of service. It seemed unofficial, maybe scanned, with some details obscured. The company's name was partially visible: Gr?? M??, and at the very end, ?.O.?.E. I couldn't find any dates, just the year. 2010.

I glanced at the time. I had spent more time than I realized. Hurrying, I closed all the open tabs and sank back onto my sad beige sofa. Uptight like a true Brit, I pulled my knitted comforter around me and settled in. As uncomfortable as ever. I felt my heart pumping and my eyes wide open.

::

He steps inside, juggling three bags of lemons and a smaller white one, but I can't tell what's inside. I brace myself, striving to appear as normal as possible.

"I'll need your help with this." His voice breaks the silence. I hurry to the door, relieving him of one of the bags, my gaze glued to the floor.

He sets down two lemon squeezers on the counter. I take one, placing a cutting board in front of me. "I already had one of those," I mention.

"It'll go faster if we both do it," he replies. I nod slowly, handing him a large bowl so he can soak the lemons. He grabs a soft small brush and swiftly begins scrubbing them.

I position myself at the cutting board, ready with the knife. I halve the lemons, placing them in another large hard plastic bowl to keep the water away from the furniture. He finishes washing the lemons and moves to the next task, pulling out two glass carafes.

Carefully, he lets the juice flow through a cooking funnel, filling the carafes without spilling a drop. The process is hypnotic. I continue with my task, the rhythm of slicing and squeezing almost meditative.

"I'll be able to leave in the next days, maybe tomorrow, maybe later," he says, breaking the silence.

Focused on the last lemons, I reply quietly, "I won't miss you."

He smiles, I don't.

::

5:30 am blinks in red at my awakening. Good. This is how I like it.

This morning I have Econ 2 at 8:30. I used to dust up and wash yesterday's dishes on mornings like this. Now, I have nothing to do other than basic hygiene.

Buttering my toast, I hear the Stranger waking up. He seems disgruntled today.

We don't exchange greetings. I play music on the radio, I feel like pop rock, Lillix. Whipped cream in hand now, I woosh some in my mouth. The movement of the body synchronizes to the melody. No tea this morning but lemonade.

I head to the hanging mirror on the wall. I bought it at Ikea, oval and plain, and I decaled it with American painted stars.

It looks off in my neutral-themed, hellishly boring apartment, herringbone hardwood, granite, and marble throughout. The rent is expensive, so much so, I barely saved $1,000 since I moved here. But I already signed the contract riffling my dad until he threw a white flag at my weak excuse of "It's a safer neighborhood, and a neutral place is easier to study in."

::

It's 2 pm and the sun is blinding, so I raise my hand to shield my eyes. The stranger is sipping lemonade from yesterday, using a reusable bottle I bought from Wells. I roll my eyes, but inwardly I admit that all that twisting was worth it. He seems at ease, just like me. His lips are set in a relaxed, straight line—neither smiling nor frowning—giving him an air of calm and introspection. In contrast, I'm acutely aware of the permanent smile I'm holding.

Lately, I've been teetering on the thought that maybe he's not so bad. It's comforting to realize that when he leaves—soon—I won't feel like I'm missing anything in my life. Well, except perhaps a fraction of my sanity that I fear will never come back.

No matter what, he weaved me into whatever organization he is associated with too, I know too much and it's hard to keep my curiosity locked. I have to though, I don't have the build to handle more.

My steps are almost skipping, a lightness in my stride that might be unsettling, my emotions are a horrid mix of unease and excitement.

"I'll just walk right into the class, nobody will notice." I hear him behind me, we're at the entrance.

I fake a moment of introspection. He's obviously right, it's just going to be a new experience for me. "I don't see a problem," I flash through, quickly heading through the building.

::

We're both eating at the cafeteria, he made pan-cooked potatoes with pesto trout. I'm not hungry enough to dig in, but did warm up the food.

I haven't become popular overnight, not that popularity exists in university anyway. But I feel less swamped by the gaze of others, I've swum through the motions smoothly with no occurrences of bullying. So far, a couple of looks from girls have been directed at the stranger even so, nothing spectacular.

It's just what I need to ease up tension from yesterday's finding. I don't mind procrastinating before having a thorough discussion with Leon.

"Not hungry?" he asks.

I snap back, and twirl my fork in the plates as a response. "So any news on when you're leaving?" I divert.

"Yeah, today." I put the fork down. "Really?! Well, that was fast."

"Yeah, I'll leave after I finish my last meal with you."

"Ugh, why did I have to add 'My last meal'?" I'm weirded out but pity him, just a little, maybe the size of a snowflake at most, so I take my first bite.

He puts his hand on his chin thinking.

"I can't give you back your old laptop but another is already at your place, it's better than your current iBook." I grimace, this guy sure is hard to follow.

"Well thanks, mhh, that's what I would have said if I was assured you paid with your money and not mine." He grins.

"No, I didn't pay it with your money." He must find my words amusing since he is still smiling.

"Okay." I keep my guards up.

"I wouldn't lie. I just borrowed your things. I gave everything back to you with interest." He hands me a letter, I take it but don't open it. He steps up, stops to look at me for a moment, and leaves.

::

I'm back home, already laying in my bed alone. He's finally gone but I'm still worried.

My new laptop on my lap, I'm trying to mentally hold on in order to finish a research essay. My focus breaks with the ringing of my phone.

"Hello, Mr. Bennani. This is Elizabeth from Scotiabank's Fraud Prevention Team. May I speak with you for a moment?"

I'm sweating, I've never been in anything relating to fraud. Is that the man's doing? I end up replying, there's no point hanging up now.

"Yes, you've reached the right person."

"May I first confirm your full name?"

"Yes, Ben Bennani."

"Perfect, we're calling regarding a recent transfer of $57,000 to your account. Before we proceed, I'd like to verify some information to ensure this call is secure for both of us. You may now reach for your credit card and dial the number on the back, add the number -70703 in order to reach this line directly. This is standard procedure to secure calls."

Holy shit, that's six times the amount I had before. I head for my wallet, I left it on top of my bedside clock. Pushing each number with haste.

The dial rings. I sit up straight walking in a circle to release the pressure.

I grab my backpack and fetch the letter the stranger gave me at supper.

"Hello, Mr. Bennani. Can you please confirm your full name and the last four digits of your account number?"

"Yes. Just a second."

Thank God I kept those digits at the top of my head. I provided what she asked. I grab the letter out, a smaller cutout is cushioned, it peaks my interest.

"Statement of Purpose for Significant Financial Transfer"

Of course.

"Thank you for confirming your details. Just a reminder that for your security, we will never ask you for sensitive information such as your full account number, password, or PIN over the phone."

"Mh yes, I'll keep that in mind." I reseal the letter.

"Great. You just have to head to your nearest branch and deliver two identification documents, say, a driving license or social security number. We will need confirmation on the sources of this fund, a letter by the sender or other customary. In the meantime, we have reviewed the initial information and have already released $10,000 of the funds to your account."

"Thank you for your assistance. I'll get the documents to you as soon as possible."

"You're welcome, Mr. Bennani. If you have any further questions or need assistance, please don't hesitate to contact us. Have a great day."

"Thank you, goodbye."

"Goodbye."

I sit on my bed, my mouth agape. I roll restlessly from side to side.

I'm happy, but just what does this imply?

There's a way to rid myself of all this energy. I grab my phone.

"Hey, Leon."

"Hi."

"Something really great happened today, do you feel like doing something fun tonight? It's on me."

"Ah, that's great. I just got a call from Rachel. Well, she's a new friend, really nice. She invited me to go to discotheque red."

"I've heard but never been. That could work.!"

"Yeah, we'll be four, she invited another friend."

"That's fine."

"I'll call you back, she'll pick us up at Mac's."

"Okay, thank you."

"It's all natural."

I hang up.

What is he wrapped into? That kind of money, I... I hope he's not in lethal danger.

I shake off this thought as I open my DS Lite.