The electronic trill of an incoming call has Stebbins shifting to slip the cellphone out of his pocket, but he hesitates for a moment as his gaze falls on the illuminated screen.

Unknown Caller.

By his own direct intention, there aren't very many people who have this number—his parents, his academic advisor, a few select peers he'd asked to delete it promptly upon finishing group projects together—and each one of them, Stebbins has saved by both first and last name in his contacts. He's on the National Do Not Call registry. He doesn't get unknown calls from mystery numbers.

After the fourth ring, curiosity gets the better of him and his thumb swipes right to accept the call anyway. It's probably spam. "Hello?"

"It is you!" Stebbins can't tell who's on the other end of the line, but whoever it is, but he can hear the smile that accompanies the exclamation through the receiver and holds the phone a few inches further away from his ear. "I thought Harkness mighta been pullin' my leg when he said he had your number. Hey, you got a minute?"

"Richard Harkness gave you my number?" Stebbins swears under his breath as he pulls the phone away and switches it to speaker so he can study the numbers on his screen, as if by staring at them he'll somehow decipher who they belong to. "Who is this?"

"What, you don't know my voice? You're hurtin' my feelings, Billy Stebbins. I was talkin' to you just this morning." Laughter crackles through the speaker, bright and amused and entirely unoffended. Stebbins recognizes that sound before he recognizes the voice. Or rather, he recognizes the familiar flutter in his chest the second he hears it. "It's Art. Art Baker. Y'know, from your History of Religions class? Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

Stebbins knows who Art Baker is. Of course he does. Art was the one who'd personally saved his ass (and his GPA) with hand-copied notes and dining hall soup last month when the flu nearly took him out mid-lecture two weeks before midterms. He still hasn't properly thanked him for that. Art talks to him more now than he did then, and every now and then Stebbins will catch sight of him from across campus and Art will lift his whole arm over his head in an enthusiastic wave. He still hasn't said thank you. Shit.

"You still there, Stebbins?" It isn't until Art cuts in with his name again that Stebbins realizes he's fallen silent. "Don't go tryin' to pretend it's a wrong number, I already heard you over there—"

"I'm not," Stebbins interjects before he can bite his tongue. "I wasn't."

"Good," Art replies in that golden sweet way he does. Stebbins thinks his phone should be sticky from how honeyed the single word sounds as it drips from the receiver. He wants to ask why that's good, why it would even matter, but Art's speaking again before he can. "Listen, there's actually a reason I'm callin' you."

Stebbins can feel his heart forget its own rhythm in real time. "Oh?"

"Did you know there was a meteor shower happenin' tonight?" No, actually, Stebbins didn't. He's still not sure why Art is calling just to tell him so, though. "Supposed to be clear and cloudless, too! There's a bunch of us drivin' out to a clearing 'bout thirty minutes south of here so we can watch it without all the lights on campus."

There's that damn flutter in his chest again. Stebbins tries to squash it before it can turn into anything hopeful. Art is going with his friends, after all. He's just said so himself. Stebbins expects that McVries and Parker and Olson are all invited, maybe even Garraty and Harkness, too. "Are you telling me so someone has your last known location when you all disappear?"

"If I were there, I'd smack you for that!" The way Art's laughing, though, Stebbins thinks it wouldn't really hurt even if he did. He's not sure Art could harm a fly. "No, silly, I'm callin' 'cause I kinda hoped you'd wanna come with. After what happened this morning, I figured you might could use a distraction."

Stebbins freezes. Of course Art saw that, too. He's in the same class. Stebbins hadn't even considered the possibility, too busy ruminating over the profound humiliation of having stayed up so late to finish his presentation that he didn't notice when he'd uploaded the wrong version of the file to his flash drive—the first draft, full of self-deprecating notes as stand-ins for sources and bullshit captions under blank images. Not only had he projected the wrong version in front of the entire lecture hall, he'd clumsily clicked through every slide trying to close it out.

Stebbins half-considers the consequences of hanging up right now so he doesn't have to hear Art's thoughts on his blunder. He tells himself it's only because he's so sore already from public embarrassment. It's not just Art's opinion he's concerned himself with, Stebbins thinks. He'd be sensitive to any criticism right now. Wouldn't he?

But Stebbins doesn't hang up and Art prods him again for an answer. "Was I wrong?"

"What? No," Stebbins says, shaking his head until he realizes Art can't actually see him. He's not wrong, not really. Stebbins could use a distraction. He'd planned to study until he couldn't see straight—two in one, a distraction and a self-imposed punishment. It's what he deserves. But he'd be a liar to say Art's idea doesn't sound better. "No, you're not wrong."

"Didn't think I was," Art replies breezily. "I got a pretty good record now, y'know."

"I haven't been keeping count," Stebbins lies.

"'Course you ain't been," Art says. "That's why I was remindin' you."

"You know I almost didn't pick up?" Stebbins doesn't know why he says it, but if nothing else, it is the truth. "I don't answer unknown numbers."

"Almost," Art repeats. "But you did this time. And I bet you're glad you did now, huh?" Stebbins doesn't answer, but there's a stupid smile twitching at the corners of his lips that he's glad Art can't see. "Pick you up at seven? You can ride with me and Collie."

"Yeah," Stebbins concedes. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you then."

There are at least a dozen things Stebbins needs to do after Art hangs up—change his clothes, find something to eat, tidy up the mess of textbooks scattered across his bed—but the very first thing he does is save Art's contact information to his phone.