Evolution is a tricky devil. One of the trickiest out there.

And not the scientific version of evolution that we know of, from Mr. Darwin and his dear boat and his experiments with finches. We all know it, taught or not, and we understand it. Darwin proposed the theory of evolution to put a scientific term to the word. We are not simply just finches, nor are we simply just monkeys.

We’re more than that.

It’s a problem to think of it in such a fashion. To realize that you are more than the sum of your parts. Look down, look at your legs, look at your arms, hands, feet, everything. They’re what you have made of them, good or bad, and yet it is enough. The modern world lulls people into a belief that they can’t do anything. You see it every day.

Beating hearts of machines, industrial and commercial pumps you full of words and denial. They fill you with atrophied phrases and sell you short. You’re nothing, you’re nobody, you’re meat and bones and you need this. Ingest this food, take these pills, buy these clothes and be the person you want to be. Be the person you wished you were.

It’s a lie.

That capacity exists in you. All you need to do is let it out.

Chapter One: Extra Credit

There’s something about an old college that makes it feel mystical. Beyond simply the prestige of the place. Pregistge is nothing more than a fancy word that headmasters and professors like to trumpet. Makes them sound good and cool for being in a place such as this. For fighting for their position to grade papers and cast judgment in the hallowed halls. Doesn’t have the same ring to it if it’s in some community college, or a tech school. But a 300 year old university?
That’s got panache.

Chutzpah.

Something holds in every corner of these old buildings. Clinging, like the smells of a school that never escapes. Every person’s faced those smells and all you need to do is say them and the memories flood back. Old wood, disinfectant, the smell of yellowed paper on a library book. Chalkboard screeches and the squeak of sneakers on tile floors. And the legacy of that, generations of it baked into those schools.

Modern schools do not have a feeling, or if they do you are aware of the lack of it. Too clean cut. A lack of any regaling history. Too clean in a way that makes it a worry to do anything in them. You’re scared that you might break something and then the whole thing’s lost the new sheen.

Old is old. Smells old. Feels old. Carve your name into the desk, you’d be one of hundreds to do so. They’ll take it out back, sand down the top of the desk and put it back in before the day’s over. You’re not simply at a school, but a school that’s been here longer than anyone you know. Several generations of people looked at the same chalkboards that you do, wrote notes on the same desk that you did, and found the chair uncomfortable. The struggle of a young student is not just of one, but of generations of students, all wrapped up into one place.

In this case, the place is Drexel University. In the grand old city of Philadelphia. The nation’s former capital, and this university being the unloved second child. Sure, it isn’t the University of Pennsylvania. Sure it allows more students in and doesn’t have the same pomp and circumstance. But it is still old. It was founded in 1891.

Even the newer buildings feel old, softening the hard contrast. Walk across the campus and you’ll be regaled by the mixture. New glass buildings crawling out of the woodworks, shining against brick and concrete paths and the greens of the university grounds in blues and black steel. The white and red bricks of the classical original university building meld together. It’s a medley. A massive medley.
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His sleep isn’t really restful. It’s the worst kind of sleep. The kind that’s done on complete and total accident. Rest your eyes for a moment, press your head down into your folded arms and boom. You’re gone. Asleep before you know it. Into the shortest snooze even when it’s been several hours. Light, darkness and then.

“Excuse me…”

A shove at the shoulder jostles the student, face down at a table in the library. His body rolls with the shove, returning back to cradling the head in his folded arms. Another shove, and it similarly rolls with it. Nothing will compromise this sleep. The body knows how temperamental this kind of sleep is. For once he awakes…

And after the third shove, he does.

The rest evaporates. Immediately as his eyes open, a lethargic feeling overwhelms him. His head feels uncomfortably warm from being pressed against a watch band. Eyelids heavy and a headache flickering in the back of his mind. The true cost of this kind of sleep, the fact it vanishes as soon as you wake up. Blinking, he looks towards the shoving motion.

“I’m afraid the library will be closing soon.”

Soon? How soon is now? The light is bright and painful, and he tugs back a sleeve to check his watch. 7:39. He glances up towards the voice and looks a young library aide in the face. She is watching him with concern mostly for finding him face down on the desk outcold for…

“Shit. Can I still check out these uh…”

He swipes to his right, nudging a small pile of books next to him. Reality begins coming back to him in a slow flowing stream, key details that he should know. Given he’s awoken in such a place as this. The aide glances over and gives him a nod, and he pushes the chair out.
It’s 7:39. It’s the end of a Thursday night that was supposed to go on for a little longer. He picks up the small pile of reference books and follows the aide back from the corner of the library he stashed himself. The back parts of any library, university or otherwise are some of the quietest. Far from the computer labs, far from the doors, far from the desk and hearing people arguing over dues. Just you, the books, shelving units and a chair. A perfect place to study.

Or, in lieu of studying, falling asleep.

His eyes were tightly pinched into a squint as they became very slowly acquainted with the concept of light. Every step cautious and slow as he got back up to speed. He’s in a hoodie, it smells faintly of sweat and his own drool from being asleep. His hair is itchy and unkempt and he’s placing a pile of books on the desk of the library.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep of barcodes being scanned. The books are reference books mostly, regarding almost every topic. Biology, financial management, the history of the Holy Roman Empire for a medieval history class that he took as a “cinch” that was rapidly turning into a madhouse and a personal novel he found interesting. The aide pushes them to the side and gives him a nod.

“We’ll send an email reminder to you saying when they’re due back. Have a good one.”

She says in a cheery voice. He tucks the pile of books under his arm and slowly makes his way out the door. The tired feeling sinks even further as he looks out the glass doors of his library, seeing darkness outside. It is night. Unfortunately. Thankfully it’s only May, so a night walk isn’t as problematic as earlier in the semester. It hasn’t made this whole past few months any better. Finals.

Finals Week was a problem last year, and it’s even more of a problem this year. Endless requirements and projects that pile up in quick succession. He had figured out the major ones for his required courses, passed a few projects and skimmed with B’s. Nice and easy. But the electives?
Oh they were the problem.

The biology book was a generic returned textbook, pages warped from heavy usage by other students. It was an in-general brush up for the science class he had taken, Human Biology 203. He expected it to be just like any other low level elective science course he “had” to do. A high school refresher on the basics. And it was. And he was not prepared for how much refreshing he was needing to do. Same with the rest. All burrs on the smooth surface of the sophomore year.

Outside smells like faint humid rain, the ever present glimmer of summer settling in. When the rain doesn’t break that humidity. The hoodie dangling on the wings of his shoulders immediately gets wet, and the annoyance will last all the way until he gets to his car. Because it couldn’t just be right there.

Colleges have an absurd affair with stuffing their libraries in corners no person would ever think to put them. As if the grand archives of books they maintain aren’t important. Thus a large divide forms between where all the books are and a place to put yourself. He’s walking out of Hagerty into the quiet din of a street, and he’s got a block between him and his car, with a large garage to waltz through. At the very least, Drexel covers parking. Into the night he goes with a pile of books across the street.

Philadelphia smells different after it rains. Can’t ever figure out what exactly it is, but there’s something else. Foreign, tangy, smells and feels a lot older and odd in the concrete and glass skyscrapers that clutter it. Even with them, you still have all the colonials and cordoned off districts where it looks like it's still the Colony of Pennsylvania instead. Those ghosts of the past come up with the rain.

It smells like you’d expect. Faintly of food carts that dot the street, grime being washed off of concrete, fresh peaty earth. But there’s twangs of iron and rust in the air, holding in a cloying pattern. Tempting. Touching. Reminders of something else entirely, something bright, metallic and screaming to be heard over car horns and the music of nightclubs. He can smell it, and it makes him walk a little faster.
The garage is right there at least, around the corner. Large concrete blocks of parking stashed with dozens of cars. One hand fumbles into the front pocket of the hoodie and finds the keys and begins pressing the button. Because he doesn’t remember where his car is. It was five hours ago he parked here after class and the exact spot is lost in a sea of silver and black. Red and gray. A faint blue and…

BEEP-BEEP!

A floor up, it chirps. Impressively through the concrete. At least he knows which floor he’s on. Up the stairs he goes, placing every foot down as carefully as he could. Slippery concrete in a building such as this, it doesn’t take much to slip, fall, crack something and be in the hospital. Didn’t want that, couldn’t afford that, although the medical college could cover the expenses.

Second floor of the garage and a press of the button reveals the car again. And the smell permeates. Iron. Metallic. It smells off, and it starts crawling up his spine a bit. Without a second thought, or even thinking of it at all, he walks a little faster. Closer and closer to his car, flashing the lights a third time to make sure he didn’t waste any time. Quickly his thumb fumbles for the trunk release, and his books are tossed in. Fumbling with the door latch, opening the car door and putting his ass to a worn out 1990’s car seat. Eyes flare and look behind him to see…

Nothing.

Not a thing. Just an empty parking lot. A car shunts out of a spot a lil’ down the garage but nothing unorthodox. Nothing makes sense for his heart, pounding in his ears for whatever reason. There wasn’t time given to ask for why, he simply put his foot to the brake and turned the car back on. Putting the single thought of getting out of here to the front. Using it to cover up just what exactly got him so terrified. The tiny little 4 cylinder started up, and he crawled out of the spot.

Alive.