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I figure the offer’s open even on the weekends.

The offices are at the rear of the school, sleek and handsome as if making up for the fact that this building was originally constructed as general-purpose office space. I pull open the heavy doors and take out my earbuds to face down the hall of checkered tile and trophy cases. There’s Ms. Penny’s receptionist desk sitting sentry in front of it all, the guardian between any wandering kid and Vincent, or the guidance counselor, or—

I freeze.

Ms. Penny’s desk is destroyed.

Her chair is toppled, drawers yanked open, binders thrown from shelves and left in open-mouthed piles. Even her cup of nice pens is on the ground, scattering the G2 Pilots I steal because I like the way they write.

And the guidance counselor’s office door hangs open like a broken jaw.

Inside, someone shrieks in frustration.

“Fucking—piece of shit!”

My stomach drops. My limbs turn leaden.

I should leave. Turn around and get out. This isn’t my problem.

But that voice is Felicity’s, so it very suddenly is.

I take one shaky step forward, then another.

Felicity, on the floor. In their black jacket and scuffed shoes. Surrounded by giant wood cabinets puking papers and folders and dividers. The guidance counselor’s name plate—MRS. BREWSTER—has been knocked to the ground. Mrs. Brewster has given up on me—doesn’t like me, won’t touch me, would rather Vincent deal with me. But even I’ve never done anything like this.

Felicity has a screwdriver jammed into the bottom drawer. Trying to wrench it open.

How did they—

The screwdriver slips and their knuckles bang into the cabinet and they scream like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them and I

can’t

keep it together anymore.

What the fuck are they doing here

“Oh my god,” Felicity sobs, smearing their hair away from their face. “Morgan?”

This and the interview and the photos and Dad’s smile on the other side of the bulletproof glass and all the filth he packed under my skin that’s never never never going to come out

“Morgan,” Felicity says again. They try to get to their feet, stumble with a pathetic yelp, crawl to me instead. Their face is red and swollen from crying. They look awful. They should be embarrassed. “Hey. Stop. It’s me. You’re—oh shit, stop, stop.”

What the fuck are they doing here. How did they get in. Did they know I would be here? Did they know did they do this on purpose I just need things to stop happening for five minutes that’s all I want is that so fucking much to ASK FOR

Felicity grabs my hands. Presses them hard against my chest. When they speak, their voice shudders. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” The floor is cold and they’re trying to pick me up off it and it’s not working.

It feels like I’m having a heart attack

“Okay,” Felicity whimpers, “okay, what do you need, what do you—I’ll let go if you don’t hit yourself, stop pulling your hair—no, stop it—”

Air collides with my lungs in a punch to the chest, and I gasp like Dad just let go of my throat.

Slowly, my brain, my body, comes back to me. A piece at a time.

I’m sniveling on the office floor. Felicity is straddling my legs, knee awkwardly jammed against my thigh to get the leverage they need to trap my hands against my torso.

“Let go of me.” My voice slurs like I’m crossfaded. Every syllable hurts. “Don’t touch me.”