​Another crap day.
Lunch. Same spot. Same goal: don’t get noticed.

 

I drop into my usual seat—back table, wall to my right. People know not to sit here. Didn’t make it a thing. Just worked out that way. Makes life easier.

 

The soda rests in my grip. Cold enough to register, not enough to pull me out of it.

 

Friday. No call from Ray yet, but it’s coming. Always does. Weekends aren’t breaks. They’re holding cells.
 

I’m halfway gone, barely tracking the hum of the cafeteria, when I catch movement. Close.

 

Her.

 

Of course she picks today to get brave. Been sitting just out of range all week, now suddenly I’m worth approaching?
Something’s up.

 

She’s got that look like she's about to talk.
Shit. Why?

 

“Uh… your name’s Shawn, right?”
The smile she pulls looks like she had to dig it up from somewhere deep.

 

“Yeah.” Short. Enough to make her second guess sticking around.

 

“You pulled my brothers’ car from a ditch a couple weeks ago,” she says.
 

Great. That hellish day again.

​

Chief’s kid. That explains it.

 

“Okay…” Suspicion’s just part of the wiring at this point.

 

“I’m Megan.”
 

And? Can’t wait for this to blow up in my face.

 

“Is it okay if I sit here?”
 

She’s still trying. Looking for a welcome mat that doesn’t exist.
 

I should tell her to find a less cursed table. Instead, I shrug.
“If you want. Nobody’s paying rent for the spot.”

 

Maybe she’ll read between the lines.

 

She doesn’t. Starts unpacking her lunch like this is some friendly picnic. I turn half away, elbows to knees, holding my soda. If I stare at the clock long enough, maybe it’ll move faster.
 

“We have a lot of lunches together, it seems.”
 

“Oh yeah?” I keep my eyes off her.
 

“If you don’t want me here—”
 

“It’s all right.” Not sure it is.

 

She chews through a sandwich like she’s proving something.
 

“That man you were with that night, was that your dad?”
 

“Yeah.” Not my favorite topic. Move on.
 

“What grade are you in?”
 

“Eleventh.” The pause after says she expected something else.
 

“So, is your last name Harris?”

 

She’s working her way down a list—Dad, school, name—like it’s a test to see how fast I’ll twitch. Curiosity, or something else?

 

Another glance at the clock. Come on.
 

“Mine’s Brennar.”
 

Cool.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you,” she blurts, standing. “I’m gonna go get a soda. Do you want one?”
 

I tilt up the bottle in my hand.
 

“Want another?”
 

I shake my head. Kinda amused, honestly. She’s nervous. I’m the least threatening person in this place, and she’s still on edge. Probably doesn’t know why she sat here either.

 

She leaves. Doesn’t even get a soda the first time. Then tries a different button.
Comes back with the kind I’m drinking, holds it out.
 

“What’s that?”
 

“Rent.”

 

By the time I get what she means, she’s sliding back to the other end of the table. I don’t say anything. Not sure I could. I don’t know what this is or why she’s doing it.

 

Bell rings. I grab the soda and head for the door—faster than usual. Need the space.

 

Whiplash.

A jerk sideways.

Pain explodes across my cheekbone.

 

“What the fuck?”

​

Taste of copper. Heat climbing my face. People gawking like this is TV.
No warning. No reason. Classic hit-and-run, Damian style.

 

Guidance counselor shoves through the herd. Reaches for me. I shove both palms into his chest. Reflex. Don’t.

 

He steps back quick, hands up. His usual not the enemy move.
 

“You swing, they’ll bury you for it,” he says.
 

Yeah. That’s the game.

 

He watches me like he knows.

“Don’t hand it to them.”

 

The words barely land. My head’s still stuck on the sting in my cheek, the blood in my mouth, the heat under my skin screaming hit back.​

​

Then he moves in front of me, blocking the view like I’m some display to cover up.
“Keep it moving,” he tells the crowd.

 

They listen. Sheep.

 

I breathe through my nose, jaw locked. Staring at the floor. Trying not to lose it.

 

Still taste copper.
 

Still don’t know what the hell just happened.

 

​*****

 

Henley doesn’t touch me again. Just starts walking and jerks his head like I’m supposed to follow.
 

I don’t move.

 

“Let’s go cool off.”
Not a request.

 

I glance at the crowd still thinning behind us. No sign of Damian. Of course. Golden boy hits and vanishes.

 

I follow. Only because standing here makes it worse.

 

His office is tucked near the front. He opens the door, waits for me to step in. Shuts it behind us. No lecture. No fake sympathy. Just points to the chair.

 

I drop into it. Elbows on knees, soda still clenched in my hand like a weapon I forgot to use.

 

He doesn’t sit. Leans against the desk, arms folded. Watches. That steady look that means it’s personal.

 

“You alright?”
 

Stupid question.

 

“Want ice?”

 

“No.”

 

I shift, jaw tight. Swallowed something thick, and it’s still there. He sees it—doesn’t make a thing of it. Just grabs the tissue box off the filing cabinet and slides one across the desk.

 

“I didn’t do anything.”
 

“I know.”
 

“Okay, so?”
 

“I’m writing it up.”

 

“Then what? You know it doesn’t matter.”

 

He exhales, slow. Like he hates how right I am.

 

“I don’t even get to defend myself. All I do is exist and he gets to—” I stop, the scrape of my teeth louder than it should be. “How is that okay?”
 

“It’s not.”
 

“Then do something.”
 

He sighs. “I’m trying.”

 

I huff through my nose. Sharp. Pointless. “If this is what trying looks like, maybe stop.”

 

He doesn’t push back. Just studies me, quiet. Like silence earns him credit.

 

“Good talk.”

 

He doesn’t blink. Just takes it, same as every other hit he can’t dodge.

 

I take a tissue. Spit into it. Red spreads across white. Great. Souvenir.

 

“Hang here ‘til the next bell,” he says. “Give yourself a second.”

 

He lingers like he wants to fix it. But nothing changes.

 

I stay in the chair. Mouth wrecked.