Nate stood at the door. “Rise and shine. Time to face the paperwork.”

She followed him groggily through several hallways until they entered the conference room where she had taken her tests, or at least one that looked much like it. He sat and gestured at her to follow suit. Papers were piled on the table at his elbow and he opened the file in front of him.

“Whether or not you intended to do so, you did quite well on the tests,” he said. Arena fought to keep her expression even. “Relatively good IQ, good reflexes, strong ethical code. Plus a healthy dose of adventurousness. They already had their eye on you, though, so it wasn’t much of a surprise from your file. The question now is how you want to proceed. You have two choices: you can either sign a document that you will remain silent or face charges of treason to the United States of America, or you can sign up with us and go through training to become a full agent.”

Nate met her eyes, his expression grim. “Before you think that might be an easy decision, if you choose to leave, you will lose your scholarships and your ability to transfer your credits to any other school will be blocked. If you choose to break the contract, you will be immediately arrested and a military trial will ensue. It’s likely you would be prosecuted for stealing government technology as well as breaking your silence. You will be in prison the rest of your life, and probably in one of the worst ones. If you stay, you will finish your degree as planned, although mostly by extension, and be eligible for graduate school. And you get paid starting today.”

Arena floundered as if hit by a massive wave, knocked to the bottom of the ocean and trapped underwater, unable to swim to the surface.

“I’m sorry,” Nate closed the file. He pushed the pile of paper at her. “When you’re ready, sign the top packet if you wish to leave, and the others if you plan to stay.” He stood and walked out of the room.

Growing up, Arena's mom always insisted on perfect grades and the path to a top college. UCLA wasn't Yale or Columbia, but it was one of the best for her chosen career. Too bad she could have just gone to Yale and become a spy. Mom would assume Arena was some fancy something or other and gotten what she wanted. Her dad never really cared; he was her biggest fan. "Go where you want, sweetheart," he used to tell her. "I'll make sure your mother comes around."

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If she declined, she would be left with her parents' restaurant. They would be so disappointed in her--her mom for not having a successful career, and her dad would believe she never fulfilled her dream. She'd be stuck in Hawaii for the rest of her life. And if she did refuse, and something happened, would her family remain safe? Which was safer—being a spy or turning the CIA down?

And then there was Sophia. What happened to her? Was she alive? Sophia didn't seem like she could survive against seedy motels, much less violent militants. Maybe Sophia wasn't really a close friend, but they had been roommates for more than seven months, and Sophia did go out of her way to help Arena in her strange way.

Training was scary, too. How would they train her? Would she have to immediately leave for wherever they trained spies? Arena knew that she was a capable enough surfer, and if they really wanted her to ride these hoverboards, she could manage, but carrying a gun and shooting at people was another matter entirely.

Part of her admitted being a spy sounded exciting. When she planned out her life, she never imagined that was even a possibility. Sure, she had seen spy movies and TV shows, and all the running and the explosions surely were glamorized, but she was in the middle of the mission to recover the hoverboards, and it had been very dangerous. Exhilarating, yes, but deadly. She rubbed her shoulder unconsciously, remembering the man with the scar and the scent of cigarette smoke.

Espionage did have a certain intellectual quotient. She liked meteorology because, in at least a little, you were trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe—knowledge of hurricanes and tornadoes could save thousands of lives. She was sure that the CIA did similar things to protect the lives of others, just without the acknowledgment of the public. Being a spy was something like standing on the south shore fending off a hurricane with a $2 poncho and an umbrella.

Trapped, the only way to redeem her reputation and discover what happened to Sophia was through the paperwork. She pushed the packet off the top and read the first page underneath. Slowly she worked her way through all the paperwork, and when she finished she sat back, tears streaming down her face.

She’d signed her life away.