Rushing to Die by Lindsay Emory Page A

television experience. Thirty minutes into the show, a doctor was yelling at another doctor about another doctor (I wasn’t quite sure, I wasn’t a medical-­drama-­type girl, myself) when I first noticed the movements. There, in the back row, then, two on the side of the room. Then the whole front row moved to check their phones. Stifled gasps and giggles circled the room first, then whispers, then murmurs. I checked my cell, just in case there was some sort of national emergency in the making, but my phone was silent. I saw a few ladies’ faces and the decision that had been made there. Just as I expected, the girls stretched their legs nonchalantly and moved as if they were taking a break. They got up as one, and the entire chapter watched them, waiting for something.
    I threw my arm across the chapter-­room door. “Where are you three going?”
    They exchanged a nervous glance before Sarah Plaisance spoke. “We’re just going to the bathroom.”
    Given the way half of the chapter were muttering over something on their phones, and the other half was watching the door, I doubted that everyone had suddenly received a helpful text reminding them their bladders were full.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked, no-­nonsense style.
    Apparently, the Gineral was a huge Grey’s fan. She was glued to the television. “Shh!”
    Sarah Plaisance couldn’t stand it anymore. She leaned in and showed me her phone screen and the tweet she’d been looking at. “We have to go.”
    I clasped my hand over my mouth in horror, and Sarah, Kennedi, and Blair burst out of the room. The rest of the room jumped to their feet and stampeded out, and after I debated for a millisecond, I followed. This, I couldn’t miss.
    Most of the girls went straight for the front door, but not me. I stormed up the stairs, bypassed the second floor, and sprinted to the third floor. A few footsteps followed me, but I wasn’t stopping to explain. The best view was going to be from the third-­floor storage room. From this window, I could see the entire span of Greek Row to the west, and had the perfect vantage to look into the Epsilon Chi backyard and the drama unfurling there.
    The tweets had come fast and furious, first from the Epsilon Chi sisters, then from the rest of the Greek system—­about the real African lion that had somehow been released into their yard. And the cage of live chickens that the lion was trying to access.
    â€œCarnage at the EX house!” the tweet had joyfully proclaimed. Even from the third floor next door, we could hear the screams of horror from the Epsilon Chi sisters as the lion successfully smashed through the lock on the chicken carrier, selected a victim, and settled down for an afternoon snack.
    It was gruesome. And strangely satisfying. I hit a number on my cell phone.
    â€œNine-­one-­one, what’s your emergency?”
    â€œYes, my name is Margot Blythe, and I’m calling to report a wild animal.” I gave the address of the Epsilon Chi house.
    â€œWe’re aware of it, and we’ll have a crew there shortly.” The operator seemed less than impressed.
    But I wasn’t done yet. “It’s the Epsilon Chi house,” I said.
    â€œWe have that information.”
    â€œNot the Delta Beta house.”
    The operator was silent. “Does this screw up the pool?” I asked.
    â€œLet me check.” I heard a flip of paper. “Actually, since you called, looks like Bob from animal control is going to get twenty bucks.”
    I gritted my teeth. “Really? The pool is whether I’M going to call 9–1–1? I thought it was just about an emergency at the Delta Beta house.”
    â€œEh. More ­people wanted in, so we expanded the criteria.”
    It was kind of a compliment, in a way. I was almost a celebrity in Sutton emergency ser­vices.
    â€œIt’s a lion,” I said, watching the