Record-breaking June heat swelters through the foyer.

Murphy Comp isn't built for it. The big picture windows trap the heat into the school like a greenhouse. They look out onto nothing but the yellowed lawn and the heat shimmers rising off the parking lot asphalt. The ceiling fan is good for nothing but droning on and on and on...

I melt into the table in the back corner, headphones skewed so they only cover one ear. Billy Williams sits across the table, staring into an open English textbook. I don't think he's turned the page once. It's too hot to think. He tries anyway, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

A sharp, chiptone song breaks the heavy white noise, too loud and too perky. I pat my pocket for my phone, but it's Billy who's ringing.

"Hello?" Billy eyes me as he answers his phone. "Yeah, of course. Tim's right here."

It's the look in his eye that makes me push my headphones down around my neck, finding pause on my iPod.

"It's your mom." He holds out his phone, shaking his head.

"My phone is dead, okay? Don't look at me like that." I take the phone from him, but it doesn't wipe the harsh, harsh judgement off his face.

"Hello?" I get up from the table, putting as much space between me and the overstuffed school foyer as possible.

"Forget your phone again?" Mom teases. I wait for a joke about putting Billy on speed dial, or getting him on a family plan, but it doesn't come.

"I have it this time, just forgot to charge it." The hall is mostly empty over lunch. Everybody is jammed into the foyer where there's at least the ceiling fan and doors propped open.

It suits me fine, leaving me to lean against a bank of lockers. I press the phone hard against my ear.

"So..." There's a reason she called.

"Something came up. I'm going to be home late. Leftovers are in the fridge," Mom says. That's her mom tagline. Other kids get did you get all your homework done? or you're not going anywhere until this room is clean. I get an empty house and cold slices of pizza. 

It's been the same since I was a kid, but she still calls to tell me, feeling just as bad about it every time. 

"Okay. I'll just be in a bathtub of ice when you get home." I shift toward the end of the bank, putting more space between me and civilization.

"With or without kidneys?"

"With. Trying not to get heatstroke," I say.

For a moment, I can hear her co-workers in the background, and Mom replying, probably trying to muffle the phone against her blazer.

"I have to take care of something. See you later. I love you," she says.

It's stupid how squeamish I am about saying that out in public, like people don't know who I'm talking to. The hall's a ghost town and I shouldn't care what anybody else thinks regardless. Cool kids care, and I've never been cool enough to have anything to lose.

"Loveyoutoo," I rush. She hangs up, off to take care of serious inn-related business.

I don't have time to talk anyway, the last seconds of lunch ticking away. The bell shrills down the hallway, bouncing off metal lockers and worn-out lino.

The classrooms have even less air-conditioning. Murphy Comp is made to withstand freak -40 snowstorms, but not the beating sun.

Dragging my feet, I find my locker, pop open the lock, and do all the normal pre-class locker digging.

"How's your mom?" Sari pops in beside me, gathering up all her dark hair so it won't tumble over her back and shoulders. 

By grace of alphabetical order, Sari Bashir's locker falls right next to mine, the only other B in class. If I were counting my blessings, the first would be this small shred of coincidence and the second that Sari has inexplicably decided that I'm worthy of her company at all.

"That was actually my secret girlfriend," I say, swinging my locker shut while she goes through hers.

Sari rolls her eyes, pulling her textbooks to her chest. "The girlfriend you managed to hide from Billy and Chaos? I would like to see the day you could keep that a secret." Metal bashes metal and she leans against her locker, looking at me.

"I'm very good at keeping secrets, thank you very much," I say. I put on the matter-of-fact act, hoping for at least a smile. "She's super hot, by the way, my secret girlfriend. Like, at least an eight. Not a nine and a half like you, but—"

She shoves me. "Only nine and a half?"

More eye rolling, and an extra persuasive push toward our Social Studies classroom before the second bell goes off. First bell is a warning, second is the serious better be in class by now bell.

My usual spot near the back next to the windows is empty and I lay everything out. It's too late in the school year to care, but I can still put up appearances and pretend I plan on using my pencil for something.

I can't decide what's melting my brain faster: the heat wave or the end-of-year reviews.

Mrs. Channing drones at the front of the room, going over chapters we finished three months ago. The first time, it almost put me to sleep. I'm not sure I can pull through hearing it twice.

As soon as my head droops, the thump against the back of my chair jars me back.

I twist around. Billy, behind me, looks perfectly innocent, twirling his pencil between his fingers.

Looking innocent is easy when he is usually innocent. He comes in a short, pale, freckle-less ginger package. His eyes flick up only a moment, looking wide behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Only a couple more weeks," he says quietly. We're so close to summer, so close to being done grade eleven.

Billy kicks me twice more before Mrs. Channing assigns review questions to work on until the end of the period. Moving, shuffling, and talking keeps me conscious.

Not even half-way through the class, sweat already running down my back, making my shirt stick to me in all ways gross and uncomfortable. Global warming is a social studies type topic. Let's talk about that and how we are all going to die in this box of stale air if we don't get proper air conditioning.

"Where do you want to start?" Billy asks, tapping his pencil against his notebook.

"By opening a goddamn window. Why has nobody else done this yet?" I lean over, reaching for the little crank.

Low, sirens hum . Different vehicles have different sirens, right? A firetruck and an ambulance don't sound the same. From so far away, I can hear at least two different rings coming in on the hot breeze.

One cop car zips by, no lights flashing. Then another follows a couple car lengths behind it.

"How many cops are there in Murphy?" I ask.

"If I had to guess, six or seven plus a couple by-law officers," Billy offers.

"Do we even have ambulances here?"

"Maybe? Like, volunteer EMTs or something. If anything happens in Murphy, we're screwed."

Probably. Murphy is a pretty terrible place to have an emergency. The nearest hospital must be an hour away, in Strathmore a town over. 

Sari edges her chair next to Billy, writing out number headings in the neat, loopy handwriting girls seem to have.

"Chaos wants to go to the lake after school," Sari says, reaching up to pull her curls higher off her neck. For all the times she complains about how cold Canada is, she sure isn't functioning well in heat either.

"Chaos always wants to go to the lake," I say, "did he say after school or did he say I'm skipping Social and going to the lake?" He could be basking in cold water as we speak. Chaos, a lanky dark-skinned surfer stereotype of a guy, doesn't have this class with us. Without anyone to rein him in, he could be anywhere by now.

"If he said I'm skipping Social and going to the lake, I would've joined him," Sari says.

"Without inviting me?"

"Maybe." Sari smirks. "Someone needs to keep Billy company."

Billy shoots her judging side eye from over the review questions he is actually, legitimately working on.

"My mom is the secretary. I can't get away with that." His excuse is an old one, but it's never failed him before. How could it? It wouldn't at all be suspicious if her son and all his friends mysteriously didn't turn up on an attendance list.

But the promise of cold, cold water might be enough to get me through the rest of this day.

"Tim Brown to the office, please. Tim Brown." The antique PA system crackles my name, speaking of Billy's mom.

Her voice is odd. Everything is distorted over the PA, but I can usually still hear the exasperation in her voice. There's usually the underlying subtext of this is my son's best friend—have I made the right parenting choices?

But now... there's something else.

Billy must hear it, too. It's weird enough that he looks up from his work.

"What did you do?" Such accusation.

"Nothing!" I insist, "this time."

Whatever. It gets me out of class for a few extra minutes.

I shrug at Mrs. Channing as I walk by her. It's the office. What am I supposed to do, not go?

The hallway is at least a few degrees cooler than the boiler room where we're supposed to learn African Colonization. I take my time, drifting toward the office. They could call me down for anything. Since before I was old enough to comprehend what anger is, I've been a principal's office regular.

Murphy Comp's office is in the front of the building, in view of the massive picture windows all along the foyer, looking out into the visitor's parking lot. There are two cop cars parked there. As near as I can tell, they're empty, but the officers are nowhere to be seen.

Shit.

What did I do? Did I punch Jeremy Sheridan recently? In gym, I might've checked him playing floor hockey. It was an accident, though. I didn't mean to get in his way, not me, one of the few guys in the class as stocky and sturdy as Jeremy is. Not me, who memorized all the legal ways you can check someone when we were twelve, playing on real ice on a real rink. Jeremy didn't mean to whip the little orange ball into my kidney. He, the guy who's been playing forward since we were kids, definitely had no control over where the ball ended up.

By any stretch, cop cars aren't comforting.

Sitting at her desk, very still and absorbed by her computer, Mrs. Williams only looks up when I cast a shadow over her.

"Tim," she says. There's something wrong, but I can't tell what. Her eyes are too glassy. She looks even paler than usual. In my chest, my ribs feel tight, like they have an ability to contract. My shirt still sticks to me. I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the sweat on my forehead, too.

"So, what did I do this time?" I ask. I did something. I had to. If I did something worthy of police, I really wish I could remember what it was. Crime sounds like a thing that'd stick in my mind.

"Mr. Boyd would like to see you in his office," Mrs. Williams says, very official, like I'm just a kid in the school she knows by name instead of the one who spends too much time lounging around her house. My skin crawls, and I bite my tongue on all the other questions I want to ask. Instead, I shuffle past her desk, around the corner to where Mr. Boyd's office is. The familiar path leads to a familiar door, slightly ajar. Using my toe to nudge it open, I stand back in the hopes I'll have a couple extra seconds to evaluate how mad he is.

But my principal stands in front of his desk, talking very quietly to a tall man in uniform. I swallow hard, not sure if I should breathe or not.

"If I'm getting arrested, you have to call my mom first, right?" I speak up, letting them know I'm here.

It must work that way. I'm a minor. On the other hand, it might be easier to handle if I get to call on a phone at the police station. If I'm behind bars, then at least Mom can't smack me upside the head.

Mr. Boyd's face twists, his lips pressed into a thin line. He leans on his desk.

My ribs contract tighter, squeezing against my heart until I can feel it beating in my arms, my legs, and my throat. Mr. Boyd's always liked me, but not enough to look like that when I've managed to screw up so badly.

The officer looks me up and down. Why? What is he deciding. What is it? For Christ's sake, somebody say something already.

"What?"

"Tim, this is Officer Brand," Mr. Boyd says quietly.

"Your records show no extended family in the area," the officer says, "is that correct?"

I glance at Mr. Boyd. He knows the answer to that. It's all in my files. Emergency contact information, who to call when the cops show up.

"No. There's nobody." I can make a pretty good guess who's second on the list after my mom. "Heather Sokulsky's the person to call after my mom...it should all be in my file."

My grandparents live in Ontario, but in no universe are they the people to call when things go south. Heather is my mom's best friend. She might as well be my aunt.

What's happening at the inn that they can't get ahold of my mom?

"What's going on?" I ask, afraid of the answer. There's nothing on the end of that question that's inviting.

"There's been an incident," the officer says. Oh. Oh, that's a confusing word. That's a vague word, meaning something happened, but to draw out the suspense, let's keep it shrouded in mystery.

"An incident?"

"It may be best to wait until we can contact Heather," Mr. Boyd offers.

It's too hot for shivers to run up my spine. No. They can't lie to me by omission. They can't honestly believe that I'll wait until Heather gets here.

"Where's my mom?" I ask, my voice steadier than any other part of me, "did you try calling Natasha at the inn's front desk?"

No one answers. There's just an exchange of uneasy glances, like they're looking right over top of me.

"Is that what the sirens were all about? There was an ambulance, right? What happened?" The steadiness I had a second ago melts fast, turning into borderline stuttering.

"Your mother was involved in an assault in the Green Valley Inn," the officer says in the calm voice that cops use when they have to deliver bad news on TV.

What happens when your heart stops? How long can you stay standing when there's no more blood pumping up and down, through all those little arteries? Is it instantaneous death, or is there a few seconds of awareness?

"No, I just talked to her at lunch and everything was fine." I shake my head. I spoke to her. She's going to be home late from work. Leftovers are in the fridge. Natasha said something and she had to go, urgent business.

"I'd really like to discuss this with you and a guardian," Officer Brand says.

What does that mean? I can't hear it by myself? I need someone else to keep me from flying off the handle?

My skin prickles. They won't tell me anything. If it's like any other week, Heather's on her way back from an afternoon Costco run out of town, still miles away.

"Can... Can I grab my things from class? I think I want to grab my phone." How I get these words out, I'm not sure.

Both Mr. Boyd and Officer Brand nod slowly. I step backward out of the room, mechanically. Mrs. Williams stands up as I walk by her, but I can't look at her. If I see her glassy eyes, I'll never get to the next hallway I have to march down.

In the quiet of the halls, steps echo behind me, but I don't look back. If I look back, I won't make it. If it's Mr. Boyd, he'll know I just walked past my classroom. I turn down a different hall, past rows and rows of lockers.

And I run.

Sprinting, I shoulder through the double doors leading out to the back field, in the opposite direction of the police.

The field is so wide and open, I'm sure the police will catch me before I get to the edge of the forest behind the school. They'll catch me before I weave through the opening in the chain link surrounding school property. They'll catch me before I cross the bridge over the creek.

But nobody does. I run until my heartbeat and my pounding feet drum out the same rhythm, zig-zagging through the woods until I get through to the other side, out onto sidewalk. Thumping, thumping, thumping because there must be some mistake

My mother has a harmless job. Getting yelled at by guests is the worst that can happen. There's been a horrible miscommunication.

Murphy is a still blur while I am in motion. The hiss of sprinklers never fades, a constant background noise like a TV without a station. Every time I blink, all I see is the twitching black and white of static.

My heart bobs in my throat. Stitches throb in my side. My feet and knees and lungs ache. A car horn blares until my ears ring, tires squealing. The road's hot enough to melt the rubber left behind.

I don't stop. I can't stop.

Except, I do, around the corner.

I've never seen so many emergency vehicles in one place before. There are piles of them in Green Valley Inn's little lot. Police cars, a bylaw officer and a peace officer, a fire truck, ambulances—they're all parked out front. Emergency tape stretches between me and the front door. They shimmer in a heat mirage vibrating off the hot blacktop of the parking lot and for a split second, the nightmare seems as fake as a cartoon oasis in the middle of the desert.

My body throbs, pulsing like I'm still sprinting. My chest aches, but if it didn't, I'd float right out of myself.

I've walked through the front door a million times. Now there's just tape in the way. Nothing but tape.

I can't get enough air into me. It feels like gasping, but it's just panting. Even while I wheeze, the men and women in uniform pay attention to other things, other people. They speak to the mish-mash of questions, all pale and all shaky.

I push past the tape, ducking underneath it.

"Excuse me!" a voice calls out, a million miles away.

My limbs are practically detached from me, numb from running. My voice is lost somewhere in the panting. I couldn't answer if I wanted to and I need words to explain that I need to be in there.

"You can't—"

I push open the door, letting myself into the lobby where air conditioning throws itself against my hot, damp skin. It looks like the lobby, exactly right, except there are more cops.

And there's Natasha. Natasha, who my mother hired to work the front desk. Natasha, who is the first face anybody sees walking in, who is always polished and professional. Except for this one time when she stands bawling. It isn't delicate weeping. It isn't crying in despair. Natasha bawls, the sound of it echoing off the walls, chopping through the air like a meat cleaver.

My stomach drops.

Cops look up, but so does Natasha. Our eyes meet across the room and I know. They're red and wet and sorry. So sorry.

She moves faster than the police. Without a word, she flings her arms around my neck.

My knees wobble underneath me and Natasha is the one thing standing between me and total collapse. 

a/n i'm so so so so so excited to be posting this story. tim's kind of my baby. he's all about the music and i could never find enough all by myself, so i'm constantly on the look out for recommendations. if you ever think of a song while reading, comment!