Maya’s first week of school was already a mess. Her locker jammed, her chemistry partner smelled like cheese sticks, and her stomach hadn’t stopped cramping since Tuesday.

She blamed stress—until something moved under her skin.

In AP Biology, they’d studied parasites. Tapeworms, botflies, even wasps that laid eggs inside live spiders. Maya had half-zoned out—but one thing stuck with her: Sudden temperature shifts can drive parasites to the surface.

By Friday, she was desperate.

After the final bell, she snuck into the science lab, locked the door, and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. She pressed it flat against her stomach, gritting her teeth against the cold.

Something inside her twitched. Then squirmed.

She barely made it to the lab sink before gagging violently. Her throat clenched—and out came a thick, black slug-like creature, slick and pulsing, the size of a baby rat. It hit the basin with a wet thump and tried to slither away.

Maya didn’t scream. She grabbed a Petri dish, scooped it up, and slammed the lid shut.

On Monday, she handed in the dish—sealed tight and carefully labeled—and gave a flawless oral exam on invasive parasites. Her teacher gave her extra credit for providing a “creative” lab specimen.

“Good thing I paid attention in lecture,” she muttered, sliding her now-functioning locker shut. Her stomach felt better already.