The Paranoia Protocol

Jordan swore someone was watching them.

It started small—their locker combo changed, their phone went missing for ten minutes only to reappear in their backpack. But then the notes began showing up. Weird little folded triangles of notebook paper with cryptic messages like "UR it" and "we know."

"Dude, you're being paranoid," said Maya, Jordan's best friend since seventh grade, as they sat on the bleachers during gym class. "Nobody cares that much about you."

But Jordan knew better. Their gut said something was off. The previous week, they'd caught Tyler—actual literal Tyler from the popular table—staring at them from across the cafeteria. When their eyes met, Tyler had quickly looked away, face flushing pink. It was suspicious. Suspicious enough to start a mental file: OPERATION: FIGURE OUT WHY THE POPULAR TABLE CARES.

The breaking point came Thursday. Jordan was supposed to be at cross country practice, running intervals until their lungs burned. Instead, they'd cut through the woods behind school to investigate a suspicious black sedan that had been parked on their street the past three mornings. Different plates each day. Clearly a professional operation.

That's when Jordan heard it: twigs snapping behind them. Someone was following them into the woods.

They bolted, instincts kicking in. Tree branches whipped their face, breath ragged in their throat. They were running blindly, heart pounding against ribs like a trapped bird. Whoever it was, they were fast—Jordan could hear footsteps crunching fallen leaves, getting closer.

"Wait! STOP!" a voice called out.

Jordan didn't stop. They scrambled up a muddy embankment, shoes slipping, and found themselves face-to-face with—

A dog.

A golden retriever, tongue lolling, tail wagging so hard its whole body shook. It barked happily and bounded toward Jordan, knocking them backward into a patch of poison ivy.

"Buster!"

Tyler crashed through the brush, face red, chest heaving. He stopped dead when he saw Jordan. "Oh. Uh. Hey."

Jordan's brain short-circuited. "Your... your dog?"

"Yeah, he, um. He really likes you?" Tyler rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting Jordan's eyes. "He kept running toward the school during practice. I was trying to catch him, not—"

"Spy on me?" Jordan finished, the pieces clicking into place. The notes. UR it. We know. The watching. "Wait. Were those notes from—"

"From the drama club," Tyler groaned. "We're doing a spy thriller for the spring showcase. We're supposed to leave mysterious messages for people to build hype. I've been trying to ask if you'd help with the set design because you're really good at art, but every time I tried to talk to you, you bolted."

Jordan lay there in the poison ivy, staring up at the canopy of leaves. "So the black sedan—"

"My mom's car. She's picking me up from track practice."

The golden retriever licked Jordan's face.

"Well," Jordan said, beginning to laugh helplessly. "This is humiliating."

"Actually," Tyler said, extending a hand to pull Jordan up, "it's kind of perfect. You clearly have the right instincts for the genre. We really do need help with the set design."

Jordan looked at Tyler's hand, then at the goofy dog wagging its tail, then at the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Their face hurt from smiling.

"Yeah," Jordan said, taking Tyler's hand. "I'm in."