Chapter 2

I walked straight into our room, my hands shaking.

Britt was on her laptop, scrolling, a smug little smile on her face.

"Britt, did you post this?" I held up my phone, showing the CampusWhisper page.

She glanced at it, then back at her screen, not even bothering to look surprised.

"So what if I did?"

Her voice was casual, like she was talking about the weather.

"It' s disgusting, Britt. Why would you do that?"

She finally turned, her eyes cold.

"Can't handle being called out for upholding toxic systems? Your dad's just another cog in the oppressive machine. It's not my fault people in the comments are disgusted."

The comments. I hadn't even dared to look.

"He's my father, Britt! He saves lives!"

"Firefighting is a historically male-dominated profession, a symbol of traditional masculinity that perpetuates harmful power structures," she recited, like it was from a textbook.

"I want you to take it down. And apologize."

She laughed, a short, sharp sound.

"Apologize for raising awareness? For speaking truth to power? Get real, Sarah. You' re just mad your performative gratitude got exposed."

She turned back to her laptop, dismissing me.

I felt sick, angry, and utterly bewildered. This wasn't "awareness," this was a personal, hateful attack.

I went to campus security the next morning.

I showed them the post, explained how the screenshot was taken.

They were surprisingly understanding.

They called Britt in.

An hour later, a security officer told me Britt had been ordered to delete the post and issue an apology to me.

The CampusWhisper post vanished.

Britt came back to the room later, her face tight.

"Sorry," she muttered, not looking at me, the word tasting like ash in her mouth.

It was the most insincere apology I' d ever heard.

I just nodded, wanting it to be over.

But it wasn't.

Moments after the officer confirmed Britt' s "compliance," my phone buzzed with a TikTok notification from one of Britt' s followers.

It was Britt, a new video.

A smug selfie video, her looking right at the camera.

In the blurred background, you could just make out someone who looked like me, sitting on my bed, looking upset.

The caption: "Just schooled a little conservative in our dorm on why she's problematic. She even called the authorities! Some people can't handle the truth. #StayWoke #Triggered. Don't go harass her, y'all. Definitely don't. 😉"

The winky face. The clear implication that I was the bad guy, oversensitive, "triggered."

My hands were shaking again.

This was worse, more public, more targeted.

I picked up my phone and called the only person I knew could help.

"Uncle Dave? It's Sarah. I really need your help."

My uncle Dave was a lawyer in the city, sharp, no-nonsense, and fiercely protective.

I explained everything, my voice cracking.

"Okay, Sarah," he said, his voice calm but firm. "First thing, document everything. Screenshots, dates, times, any witnesses. Save it all. This is harassment, and with that second post, we might be looking at defamation too. Don't engage with her. Just gather evidence."

His words were a lifeline.