Lyn remained curled up in a fetal position atop the closed toilet seat, her eyes shut as the ache pounded torturously against her brain. All she could breathe in was smoke, coughing the putrid air out into her stocking-clad knees—knees pressed against her chest, face pressed against her knees.

From the shadows of the abyss, the voices went on screaming at her, echoing, pervading, a violent cacophony of sound; so overwhelming she felt herself tremble in shame and self-directed rage, felt tears escape the crack between her eyelids and roll down her cheeks unceasing.

And apart from the voices in the dark, like a distant peal of thunder, Lyn could hear Cheryl and her friends chant, "Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!"

    But she no longer paid them much mind, and it was a strange thing, really: how she was crying not because of the blatant mockery and the little fires Cheryl and her friends threw at her again and again, nor was the mound of ashes and flames below her the reason for her tears—the accumulation didn't amount to much, the small fires dying quickly and the collective flame kept alive only by their adding more burning pieces to the heap, the blaze rising at a level too low to set anything around it aflame—nor did she give much thought to the possibility of her smothering to death in a toilet cubicle—a pathetic demise—but Lyn found herself crying over the words the voices in the deep shadows were telling her—that this was all her fault, that she shouldn't have showed any sign of vulnerability (what would her father think of her, say to her, if he saw her right now in this state), that she shouldn't have called for Talya's help and troubled her, that she deserved this, truly deserved this punishment; and that if she were to die here and now, it was fine—she deserved it anyway. That all these things the choir of demon voices were telling her, singing to her, screaming at her—these all held an irrefutable truth: this was all her fault, and she deserved to die, and her absence would be better for everyone else.

    "Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" the chanting went on on the other side of the door, and more strips and rolls of paper, lit aflame, flew in through the space at the bottom of the door. Smoke was filling the air, insinuating into Lyn's lungs; she coughed again into her knees. "Burn the witch!"

COME TO US, the voices called out to her from the stygian void. FALL INTO THE SHADOWS, DROWN DEEP IN OUR DARK WATERS, INTO THE ENDLESS DEPTH, THEN YOU SHALL CEASE TO EXIST—IS THAT NOT THE VERY THING YOU DESIRE? IS THAT NOT WHAT EVERYONE ELSE DESIRES—FOR YOU TO VANISH FROM THIS WORLD AND LEAVE THEM BE? THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU, WRETCHED CREATURE. DIE! YOU DESERVE NOTHING GOOD—PUNISHMENT, YES; BUT DEATH, YES, YES, YES! THAT IS THE VERY FATE DUE YOU. YOU MUST BREATHE, BREATHE, BREATHE IN THE FUMES, AND DIE. DIE! DIE! DIE!

And so Lyn lifted her head up, eyes still closed, and breathed in the smoke, one deep inhale after another, and the voices of the dark cheered her on, and the chanting continued beyond the door, a mere whisper in the raging storm, as pieces of paper were ignited and flung in to her own little realm of hell. "Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!"

    Her heart hammered within her chest in quick erratic rhythms. Her eyes were now open, and the world spun and turned and blurred around her, nothing but smears of coral pink and white and fiery red filling her vision. Yet she kept breathing in and in and in, each inhale deep and deliberate, drinking in doses of hot tainted air, feeling the heat fill her mouth and slide down her throat and cool in her lungs. Did just as the voices were telling her . . .

    "Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!"

Then Lyn felt herself both float and fall, heard the gush of waters, a soothing melody, as though a river ran close by, and the last thing she was conscious of, before the world around her faded to nothing, was a shatter above.

    Then she was gone.

Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya stared at the door; it shook as Cheryl and her friends pounded their fists against it from the inside, their screams and cries for help resounding beyond the barrier; the doorknob rattled as though someone within was trying to unlock it with trembling fingers.

Then finally there came a click, and Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya stepped away as the door swung open. Cheryl, Alisa, Cate, and Viola disgorged themselves out into the hallway, all stumbling onto the floor before they hurriedly got to their feet and ran down the corridor, completely ignoring the five of them who stood there watching. Someone was sobbing—they could hear a pattern of whimpers and groans echo down the hall—and Alisa's nasally shrill voice yelled, "It's true—I told you so! Taraschi's a total freak! Told you we shouldn't have done it!" They soon disappeared round a corner, and Alisa's ongoing string of complaints faded into silence with the growing distance.

Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya then turned their attention to the restroom. All the lights had been shut off, painting the place in shadows; they could hear the steady gush of water, as though someone had left all the taps running.

Talya released her arm from Sander's grip, and began to move toward the open doorway until—

"I'll go in," Sander volunteered, holding a hand out to stop Talya from taking another step forward.

    "And I'll go in with you," Talya said, with conviction, grasping Sander's forearm before he could move any farther.

    "Talya, what if something dangerous is in there? Cheryl and her friends didn't seem to be faking it. One of them was in tears, real tears. I don't want you to get hurt."

    "But I don't want you to—"

    "Max," Jack called, interrupting Sander and Talya's debate.

    Max had already decided to go on in before any of his friends noticed, before anyone could tell him otherwise. He ignored Jack's warning, and continued his steps into the restroom, into the dark. Damien, Jack, Sander, and Talya stood outside for a moment, hesitant, saying nothing. But after no longer than a minute, before Sander and the others could take a couple steps into the restroom, Max's tall silhouette crouched down to the floor, and he said, "Lyn, Lyn. Hey, Lyn, wake up. Lyn. Come on, we're here, it's safe now. Lyn. Lyn! Lyn, wake up, come on! Lyn, wake up! You've got to wake up, please! Lyn! LYN!"

Hearing the sharp rise of panic in Max's voice, Damien, Jack, Sander, and Talya rushed into the restroom. Jack slapped a hand onto the light switch, and when no light had come on even when he tried flicking on the switch again, Damien noticed—catching sight of it from the corner of his eye as he ran—and quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned the flashlight on, shining a beam of light upon Max's couched figure hovering over a girl's crumpled form, her long dark hair spread out on a patch of coral pink tiles, shards of white glass scattered near her head. Lyn lay on her side on the floor, her skin paler than normal; the rise and fall of her chest was worryingly slight, and her heart rate—as Talya discovered upon pressing two fingers to Lyn's wrist—had dropped to an abnormally slow pace.

"We've got to take her to the infirmary," Max said, tossing away glass fragments from her hair, from the space surrounding her head, into the far shadows. Then he gently pulled her limp, lithe form toward him, careful to avoid any more debris from what might had been one of the fluorescent tubes overhead.

Max tried to lift Lyn up, arms trembling under her weight, but Jack stopped him before he could bring her any higher than a foot off the ground; he took the unconscious Lyn from Max carefully, placing his arms beneath her upper back and knees, soon rising up to his feet with her in his arms as though she weighed no heavier than a young child.

And immediately all five of them made their way out of the restroom and rushed down the corridor, leaving the taps to run as water began to spill out over the edges of the sinks, in the dark.

The minutes crawled on in silence. Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya sat on the bench right outside Mr. Grisham's office, waiting.

Sander glanced down at his watch—it was nearing half past four—and without much thought, he then transferred his glance to Jack, who had been excused from basketball practice that afternoon to comply with the requirements for this incident report, and right now Jack seemed to be playing some game on his phone to pass the time. Damien sat beside him, also on his phone, his leg jerking up and down out of what Sander assumed to be habit than nerves.

Not wanting to disturb him or anyone else that moment, Sander shifted his eyes over to Mr. Grisham's window; there was a crack between the curtains, and he could see Cheryl's long blonde hair, her back turned to them as she and her friends faced Mr. Grisham and the large oak desk he sat at. But he could hear nothing of what Mr. Grisham was saying to them in his office, nor the girls' explanations—alibis, perhaps—regarding the incident in the restroom.

Just then, a hand rested on his forearm. Sander looked to his left, his eyes meeting Talya's delicate sapphires.

"It'll be all right," she assured him, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "We'll be okay, I'm sure of it."

"Because we're on the right?" Sander said, thinking the better of asking her how she could be so sure of this; knowing Talya all these years, he was certain he already knew the answer.

She nodded. "Because we're on the right"—she smiled a small smile—"and because we know the truth, that they were hurting Lyn."

"But what hurt them?"

They all turned to Damien at the sudden interjection. He was no longer looking down at his phone.

"What d'you mean?" Jack asked, his eyes abandoning his phone screen as well.

"I'd believe you if you told me Cheryl, Alisa, Viola, and Cate were trying to hurt Lyn. Setting paper on fire and all," Damien said, the tone in his voice solemn. "Knowing them, they're ones who'd dive in for the thrill of causing some trouble, more so when it involves getting even. Cheryl can hold a grudge, I've seen that, and I've seen her take her revenge on some girls in nasty ways—mostly online, though. I'm thinking Lyn might've pissed her off with what she said the night those—um, yeah, the night you picked me up from the party. Remember that? What she said roasted Cheryl real bad. But still, I'm thinking they wouldn't have gone that far to wreck the restroom, and I don't think they meant to hurt Lyn that badly. Scare her, torment her, yeah. But to kill her"—he shook his head—"I don't think so. Hell, I don't think they even wanted her to end up in the infirmary. Yet again Cheryl can get reckless at times, but I still don't see how she and the others could have done that much damage. They know it'll be too big of a mess for them to clean up in the end."

"So you're saying?" Jack asked.

"I'm saying they're responsible for attacking Lyn, that they did terrorize her with fire, that they might have also hacked into the Ravenwood Facebook page and sent that link to everyone in school except us. But I don't think they broke the fluorescents or kept the taps running. They like breaking the rules, the fun of it, but like anyone else they hate getting caught. So I don't think they would've thought of wrecking school property in the first place; they know they've got to clean up after their crimes to escape the consequences. And they seemed legit freaked out when they ran out of the bathroom. So I'm thinking—"

    "—that someone else trashed the restroom," Sander finished.

    Damien nodded. "Besides," he added, "none of them are tall enough to reach the ceiling and smash the lights. They would have needed a chair, and something real solid to shatter the fluorescents with."

    "But who else could have done it?" Talya said. "No one else was in there but the four of them and Lyn. And I don't think Lyn could have done something like that."

Damien shrugged. "Who knows who did it," he said, thinking the better of mentioning their tall, pale, and creepy stalkers from Crystalline—Talya sat just a few feet away from him, listening. This wasn't the best time; later then, he decided, when it would be just him and his bros—"What matters right now is the tables don't turn and the blame doesn't fall on us or Lyn."

"And what matters too is that Lyn's okay after all that's happened," Max said, breaking his silence. It surprised Damien, Jack, and Sander that he had not said a word since they met up after class in front of Mr. Grisham's office. It just wasn't very Max.

"Any news?" asked Sander.

After bringing Lyn to the infirmary, when they knew she was in good hands under the care of Mrs. Rose Villanueva, the school nurse, Max had asked if she could keep them updated of Lyn's condition through text messages. She gave him the infirmary's mobile phone number upon the request, and promised she will keep him—and them—informed, and she did.

"Lyn woke up a few minutes after we left the infirmary," Max said. "According to Mrs. Villanueva, it seems Lyn might have fainted more out of emotional stress and fatigue than carbon monoxide poisoning, and Mrs. Villanueva said that's a good thing, said Lyn's lucky her exposure to smoke didn't take hours or she could've—" Max fell silent a moment at the thought. "Yeah, she could've had worse complications that'll last weeks, months maybe. And she could've, um, she could've died . . ."

"But she didn't," Jack said, with a small smile.

Max nodded. "Yeah, would've been real traumatic to lose a friend."

"I didn't see her in class, though," Damien said. "Mrs. Villanueva sent her straight to the dorms after she woke?"

"Yeah, she did," said Max, glancing down at his phone. "I asked Lyn how she's doing now. She said she's doing okay. Just needs some rest, is all. Today's been tough on her."

"Thinking about it," Talya piped up. She bit on her lower lip in thought, and went on, directing her question to Damien, "You said Cheryl and her friends were probably behind the Facebook hack and the online bullying against Lyn, right?"

    Damien nodded.

    "Do you think Cheryl and the others had anything to do with what happened to Max?"

    Damien thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then he nodded, slowly. "They could, but I don't they would've," he said, turning to Talya. "People do what they do for a reason, Talya. Question is, what for? What's in it for them? I can't think of anything they could have against Max."

    "Maybe for taking her precious Deedeebear away?" Jack said, giving Damien playful nudges to his side.

    Damien chuckled, and swatted Jack's hand away. "Cheryl never called me Deedee—"

    But the conversation was cut short as the door swung open. Cheryl and her friends stepped out of Mr. Grisham's office, their heads hung low, one of them wiping tears out of her eyes.

    Damien had his sights fixed on Cheryl, trying to get a better look at her, but she only seemed to want nothing more than to get out of there as soon as possible, avoiding any eye-contact with her ex-boyfriend. And without a word or a glance, they walked past Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya, down the corridor and out of sight.

    A moment's silence, then, "Well," said a voice, familiarly austere.

They all tore their eyes away from the girls' retreating figures, and turned to Mr. Grisham, who stood in the doorway, wearing his usual gray slacks and blazer, wearing on his face the usual expression of a man who meant no nonsense—and no delay.

The five of them stood quickly and made their way into the deputy head teacher's office. Mr. Grisham held the door open for them, closed it when Sander, the last to enter, stepped in. Without a word to any of them, he then walked over to his desk, took his seat, letting out a tired breath as he looked up at his next set of interviewees. Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya stood before him, still and silent, waiting for Mr. Grisham to start his imminent inquiry.

"So," the teacher began, "if you all wish to go to your dorms to rest as soon as possible, you will answer my questions honestly. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mister Grisham," they said, collectively.

"Before we start"—Mr. Grisham held out a hand—"your incident reports, please."

Sander quickly crouched down to the floor where his backpack sat, rummaged through its contents, and produced five sheets of paper, which he then handed to Mr. Grisham.

Mr. Grisham smiled as he took the papers from him. "The ever reliable and ever organized Mister Alexander," he said, with a chuckle. He proceeded to scan the reports, eyes moving across one account then skimming another. After a moment he set them aside, right next to another pile of papers similar to what he had just held. "Now," he said, looking up at the students standing from across the desk, "tell me what happened: tell me what you saw, tell me what you heard. Tell me everything, and most importantly tell me the truth."

    And so they did. Talya began with telling Mr. Grisham about what she saw in the restroom; the boys joined in by the time she came to the part when she called them from the cafeteria. Together they told him about them running to the restroom to come to Lyn's aid, about hearing Cheryl and her friends screaming and yelling and banging on the door from the inside before the girls ran out and down the corridor, about them finding Lyn passed out on the restroom floor in the cold dark. Mr. Grisham took note, asked questions in between. And when they were done, the deputy head teacher scanned his notes for a brief moment, looked back up at them, and said, "Thank you for your cooperation. Although I will still have to compare your written accounts to what you have said earlier, let's call it a day, shall we? Today's events must have been stressful for you all, most especially for Miss Taraschi. I advise you all get some rest after this. You are now free to go."

Sander's hand shot straight up into the air.

Mr. Grisham noticed it in an instant, and so did everyone else in the office. "Yes, Mister Alexander."

"So, um, are we done with the inquiry, Mister Grisham?"

"Yes. Yes, we are. Done for today, at least."

"So, uh, we're not in trouble?"

Damien choked back a laugh, shoving it so quickly down his throat he ended up coughing a little. He immediately shut his mouth to keep himself from making any other noise, yet he couldn't stop the smile that crept to the corners of his lips.

He then looked up to Mr. Grisham, who sat there—no, something wasn't right about this. Were Damien's eyes deceiving him? Was Mr. Grisham really . . . smiling? And was that a laugh, loud and genuine, that erupted out of the small balding man in a gray blazer?

No, Damien's eyes weren't playing tricks on him: Mr. Grisham did smile, and Mr. Grisham had thrown his head back and was laughing so hard it reverberated through the once still, tense air of his office.

That smile, that laugh—they all came off in way so uncharacteristic of Mr. Grisham that Damien found the laugh within his own throat vanishing into nothing, humor replaced by a strange sense of fear.

"Are we in trouble?" Mr. Grisham said between fits of laughter. "Are we—Ha-ha-ha! Oh dear, that made my day, Mister Alexander! Truly, truly made my day!" The teacher then drew in a deep breath, and sobered up. "Of course not, Mister Alexander," he answered, the smile on his face polite and professional, yet one that also bore the ghost of the strange mirthful spirit that had possessed him mere seconds ago. "Why in the world would the school system punish witnesses? Abiding to the principle of justice and equity, punishment falls on those who have done wrong, and in this case none of you deserve it."

    Damien's hand then jutted up.

    "Yes, Mister Bautista," acknowledged the deputy head teacher.

    "So we can leave now, Mister Grisham?" Damien asked, pushing his hands into his pockets, doing a little shrug to ease off the strange feeling of seeing Mr. Grisham's jovial state.

    At this, Mr. Grisham regained his full composure, the smile from his face fading into the austere expression they all knew so well. "Yes, yes," he said, moving toward the door, opening it for them as though he wanted them out as quickly as possible. "We're done here. Go get some rest, all of you."

And so Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Talya filed out just as they came in, albeit without the same haste and trepidation as they had entered Mr. Grisham's office almost half an hour ago. And as soon as they stepped out of the room, their eyes caught sight of two figures standing a few paces beyond the door.

    "Dad," said Talya, rushing over to Dr. McKenna. The headmaster smiled, pulled his daughter into a quick hug. And the second her father released her from his gentle hold, Talya looked up at him, two pairs of the same sapphire eyes meeting, and said, "I thought we agreed we were going to meet up in your office. So, what brings you here?"

    "I'm going to have a little meeting with Mister Grisham regarding all that's happened today," said Dr. McKenna, smiling down at his daughter. "Also, I wanted to see how you're doing after all this. Aaand here's a little something that might take those blues away." His hand then proceeded to ruffle Talya's blonde hair.

    "Dad!" Talya swatted away his hand, laughter escaping her lips nonetheless. After a brief glance at the boys standing behind her, a slight blush made its way to her cheeks. "Dad, don't worry, I'm okay," she said, smoothing out her locks of soft sunshine, her face tinted a shade of pink. "We're okay, really. What's important is Lyn's all right. She's the one who took the brunt of today's events."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Dr. McKenna, nodding. "Rose—Mrs. Villanueva, I mean—told me about her condition. She told me she'll be fine; she just needs some rest."

"I'll look out for her," Talya promised. "Make sure she's really okay."

Dr. McKenna pulled his daughter into another embrace. "I'm proud of you, Talya," he said, his head resting atop hers. "I really, really am."

And there was someone else, besides the headmaster, who waited across Mr. Grisham's office.

Max stood unmoving, staring straight at his father who stood next to Dr. McKenna; the look in Mr. Gascarth's eyes was grave, quietly reprimanding. "We need to talk, Max," those eyes said, the message traveling across the physical silence between father and son.

    And with that, Max turned to Damien, Jack, and Sander, and said, "I'm going to go with my dad for now. See you later?"

    And without waiting for a response from them, Donald Gascarth began his walk down the hallway, Max rushing after him in long strides, Jack's voice—"Yeah, see ya."—a murmur in the distance.

    In silence, heavy and tense between and around them, Mr. Gascarth went on walking down the corridor, round a corner, straight on till they reached the stairwell, making his way down the steps until they came to the lobby, only for him to go on walking down another corridor once again—all these without a single glance at his son. Max trailed behind him, knowing by now what to expect—the aftermath of this cruel day to make this all the more cruel for him. He could hear his heart pound within his chest, drumming its own quick, painful, incessant rhythm; he could feel heat bloom into his cheeks, spreading through the entirety of his face; he could feel his nerves crawl like a procession of spiders through his system.

    Max pushed his hands into his pockets, and glanced down at the floor, and looked up again, seeing his father make his way through double doors left wide open, walking toward the quadrangle at the back of the academic building. Max followed. And when they came right outside the door, beneath the shade, Mr. Gascarth halted in his steps, Max mirroring the sudden stop, and he turned to his son, and said, "We had a deal. You remember that, don't you, Max?"

    Max nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat, feeling his cheeks burn despite the cold air that enveloped them. Somewhere in the distance thunder roared, reverberating through the expanse of gray clouds overhead; it was going to rain soon.

    "One more incident," Mr. Gascarth said. "One more incident to happen to you or any of your friends, and that would be the last straw, you would stay away from them from there on out. We agreed to that, didn't we?"

Max nodded again. He couldn't think of any defense, any loophole in this situation. So he stood there, silent, drinking in his father's words, and the reality of it all.

"From now on, I'll pick you up on Fridays after school—starting today, that is—and you'll be staying with us at home for the weekends. So by later, at around six o'clock, I expect you to—"

    "But, Dad—"

    Max started at his father's words, at this unexpected rule to the stipulation; he stared at Mr. Gascarth, wide-eyed, in utter disbelief. He couldn't be home for the weekends, Max thought to himself, his head aching from the storm brewing in his mind. Not with all that was going on—not with his training with Mr. Bato, not with the rest of the field trips he and his friends were to have with Mr. Brighteyes. He had so much to learn of Crystalline; and as far as he knew, he wasn't prepared to fight those creeps—and possibly the other Crystallian bad guys like them—if they came to attack him and his family again.

    "But what, Max?" asked Mr. Gascarth, brows rising in question, eyes blazing with anger. His voice rose with the demand for an explanation. "What is it? Tell me! Tell me now! Why shouldn't you come home for the weekends?"

No, no, he couldn't tell him. His father wouldn't believe him—no, would never believe him. So Max simply stared on, eyes fixed on Donald Gascarth and the rage emanating from his features. No word spilled from Max's lips, whilst a tempest of thoughts, of words incoherent in speech, pounded violently against the walls of his brain that it physically hurt. He could feel tears well up behind his eyes, and he fought back to keep them there, unseen, drawing in a couple breaths to keep steady, all the while plunging himself into the storm in his mind in search for a reason, a justification.

    Silence between them. Silence that lasted for an eternity. Silence that pained them both. Nothing but the rumble of thunder in the distance.

And in the end, Max found nothing—no reason, no justification his father would believe at first listen, or perhaps ever.

    "Thought so," Mr. Gascarth said, a jarring fissure through the cold, tense, quiet air.

    He must've seen it on his face, Max thought to himself, that he had come out empty without uttering a surrender—a defeat by default.

    Mr. Gascarth stepped closer to his son, patted him on the shoulder—it would have been a funny sight, considering how Max stood almost a head taller than his father did—and looked Max in the eye, and said, "You know this is for your own good. You do know that, right?"

    Without an escape route, Max knew there was no disagreeing, and so he nodded, the gesture a mere act of compliance, bearing no ounce of actual meaning to it.

    "Just like when we all agreed to move here," said Mr. Gascarth, giving his son another pat on the shoulder.

    No, this is different. So different. A far concept from moving here. If only you could—if only you would—understand.

    Nevertheless, Max gave another nod, a strong feeling of resentment blooming within him, swelling throughout, pounding behind his eyes in the form of tears threatening to spill. But he kept his cool, kept his face straight, kept the tears at bay.

Mr. Gascarth then rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "It'll hurt for now," he said, "but it's for the best. To keep you safe."

But what will keep us safe if they come for us again?

At Max's lack of response to his statement, yet knowing, by the look he was giving his son, that there seemed to be nothing more to say, Mr. Gascarth heaved out a sigh. "I'll pick you up at six," he said, still with an edge to his voice. "Be ready by then, outside the boys' dormitory, on the front porch."

He then turned to walk back into the building, and when Max still stood there, unmoving, as another peal of thunder drummed from the heavens, louder this time, he turned back to his son and said, "You need time to pack your things, Max. Better get going."

Max drew in a deep breath at his words, at this implicit command to go on, to move through the motions unperturbed as a man should, to act as though all was well. But he couldn't pretend, not any longer. He needed this, Max thought to himself, even for a brief moment. "Dad," he said, his voice almost breaking. But he kept his cool, kept his face straight, kept his voice as steady as he could. "Dad, I . . . I need some time to myself. Alone. Please. It'll just be for a minute. I—I'll be ready at six, I promise. I just, I just need this."

His father studied him a moment—a moment too long in Max's opinion. Then, seemingly satisfied that his son meant no lie, no mischief, he simply said, "Just be on time." And with that, Mr. Gascarth walked away, into the shelter of the academic building, leaving Max alone, just as he asked for, just as he wanted.

    The second he disappeared down the hall—out of sight, out of earshot—Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and allowed the tears to fall, to careen down his face, to simply let go. The wind then blew his way, a loud whistle piercing the near silence; Max wrapped his arms around his torso to keep himself a little warmer from the chill. Lightning flashed across the sky; thunder roared overhead, the loudest he had heard that day. Then he glanced up at the deep gray expanse, and realized then that the heavens were crying with him.