Page 1 of The Code of You

Chapter 1

Pandora

Would anyone miss me if I died?

I let the book slip from my hand. "I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” Wuthering Heights. My favorite novel. Someone had underlined that sentence, even though you weren’t supposed to mark up library books. I sighed and slid it back onto the shelf. No one would ever say that about me.

Dust motes drifted in the stained-glass light spilling through the tall windows. I trailed my fingers along a shelf when I saw it. Up there. A first edition of Keats’s poems. I climbed the ladder and eased it free. The leather was thick and worn smooth, carrying that scent I loved more than anything—earth and history and something almost alive. My fingers traced the embossed cover, following the gilded lines. I pressed the book to my cheek. The cool leather settled something in my chest.

I placed the Keats back on the shelf. Carefully, the way you set down something living. I let my fingertips linger on the leather for a moment before I turned away. Then I left the library. My office sat two hallways away in the English Department at Ashmore University. Books covered the desk, the windowsill, even the floor. It was as if I’d tried to fill the silence with paper. A stack of essays waited on my desk. I dropped into my chair and smoothed my skirt. Back straight. Shoulders back.

A knock.

"Come in.”

The door opened. A young woman with honey-blonde hair stepped inside. I knew her from my Introduction to Romantic Literature lecture. Third row, second seat from the left. Always the first to raise her hand. Always the last to leave. She stood in the doorway, staring at her shoes, a piece of paper clutched in her hands.

"Dr. Blake—do you have a minute?”

"Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

She perched on the edge of the chair. Her eyes were red. She placed the printout on my desk. I recognized it. Her last essay. My grade in the top corner: a B.

"Dr. Blake . . .” Her voice cracked. "You’re my favorite professor. But I . . . I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

I folded my hands on the desk. Calm, open, approachable—the demeanor the faculty handbook said to adopt. Body Language in Teaching: A Guide. "Chapter Four: Handling Emotional Situations.”

"A B is a good grade.”

"A B isn’t an A.” Her lower lip trembled. "I just don’t understand why I’m not . . . good enough.”

She cried, silently at first, and then a sob broke out of her like something that had been locked up too long. Her shoulders shook. She pressed her palms against her eyes as if she could push the tears back in.

I reached for the tissue box and set it in front of her. Not good enough. The words crawled under my skin, settled there, dug into an old scar that had never properly healed. I saw my mother at the kitchen table. Her smile that wasn’t really a smile. "An A minus is fine. An A would have been better, of course.” My father beside her, silent, newspaper in front of his face.

I swallowed. My throat was tight. I turned back to the student, who was blowing her nose into a tissue. "Listen to me.” My voice came out calm, controlled, the way I’d trained it to be. Every word in its place.

She looked up. Mascara streaked her cheeks.

"A B means you did good work. Not perfect work. Good work. And you know what?” I leaned forward. "Good work is enough.”

Liar, a voice whispered in my head. I didn’t believe a word of it. Last night I’d spent three hours on a single paragraph of my novel and deleted it in the end because it hadn’t been good enough.

I ignored the voice. "Your analysis of Byron’s metaphors was precise,” I said. "Genuinely. You drew connections even I hadn’t made. But your conclusion was rushed. You dropped the argument before it could land.”

The student nodded and pulled another tissue from the box. "I just . . . thought . . .” she managed between sobs. "Chat Plus . . . said the conclusion was fine.”

Chat Plus? The AI? Was she serious? Was she one of those students who ran their papers through a machine for validation? I felt my expression shift and brought it back under control immediately, clearing my throat. "You use . . . AI?”

Her eyes went wide. "I . . . not to write it, obviously,” she stammered. "Just to check it at the end.”

I nodded slowly, but something tightened inside me. Last semester I’d read an essay that had been flawless. Every sentence had landed exactly right. Not a single error. And yet something had been missing as I read it. Like looking at a perfect copy of the Mona Lisa—technically impeccable, but without the one brushstroke that tells you Leonardo da Vinci was tired that day. Or in love. Or angry. The student had admitted he’d had the AI write it. Since then I could smell it, that sterile scent of text that had never been alive.

"I swear I wrote everything myself,” the student cried, dissolving into sobs again.

"I know.” I placed my hand over hers and almost pulled it back. The warmth was unfamiliar. I didn’t let people in very often. "I believe you.”

She calmed and blew her nose.