Icing my ankle through the night helped. The three cups of coffee I drank before leaving the house helped.

                Uncle Brian's offhand comment of "Even this neighborhood isn't safe anymore" as he watched the morning news didn't help.

                Nyssa and Talon were waiting for me when I got to school, and Nyssa carefully wrapped my ankle for me. I still had a slight limp, but I could pass it off easily enough.

                The assembly that morning was different than the others. This one had a smug Mallory and a tired Corr. Corr informed the students that they knew there were at least two suspects, and they were most likely working with more people. He said that they were most likely students.

                Mallory only said that he was aiding the police in narrowing down a list of suspects. He said there'd be more questioning in the following days. Principal Devin wrapped up the meeting with the usual advice and warnings.

                The school day was stressful, partially because I was exhausted and partially because all anyone was talking about was last night. Word had gotten around fast that the suspects had nearly been caught at their latest victim's house.

                By the end of the day, I was ready to just go home and hide under my blankets. A few people had noticed my limp, but I'd passed it off as just being sore from tripping up the stairs while trying to carry laundry up to my room.

                I entered the Social Action room and dropped into my chair. The twins looked over at me, Nyssa eyeing my ankle.

                "Did the wrap help?" she asked.

                "Yes, thank you," I said gratefully. "It feels a lot better."

                "I'll wrap it as long as you need. Just text me in the mornings to let me know," Nyssa said.

                "I once twisted my ankle during a rugby game and Nys wrapped it so well I played the rest of the game with only the slightest limp," Talon said.

                "That was probably a mix of the wrap, the adrenaline, and your pure stupidity," Nyssa said.

                "Fair enough," Talon said with a nod.

                Connor came into the room and sat down. He pulled Jonesy out of his bag and let the dog curl up in his lap, stroking his fur.

                "You can't take him out in the school. Bishopp is going to kill you," Nyssa said.

                "Last night stressed him out!" Connor said, putting an arm around his dog protectively. "He was worried."

                The door opened and in came Tyson, Farren, and Bishopp. Bishopp shut the door and spun to face us.

                "Are you all okay?" he asked in concern. "I heard on the news this morning that you were almost caught."

                "No, Tyson and Nolan were almost caught," Nyssa said. "Connor told us they were in trouble, Tal and I made a distraction, and then we hid just outside the house until they were out."

                Tyson sat down and I eyed his face nervously. There was a light bruise on his nose, but it was only visible from the right angle. Otherwise, it just looked like a bit of dirt.

                "How did it happen?" Bishopp asked.

                "They jumped Tyson from his blindside," I said. "But they didn't know they were jumping his blindside. I think they just got lucky."

                But did I really believe that? They'd all taken him down from that side instead of trying to surround him. Still, they hadn't known he was blind in that eye, or else they surely would've known it was Tyson.

                "It's not a secret I'm half-blind, but it's not overly well known, either. Most people only know if they heard the story back in elementary school, or saw me when I had my eyepatch. Once I had my glass eye made, people rarely knew," Tyson said. "So yes, it is possible they just got lucky."

                I could tell he didn't really buy it either, though. There was something more going on here.

                "Nyssa and I took out the service," Farren said. "No traces left behind. If we keep going, we only do old jobs from now on. Someone ratted us out."

                "Everyone made it home alright last night, right? No one was seen or followed?" Bishopp said.

                "Not that we're aware," Farren said. "I locked my door every night because Mickey knows how to get in, so I know my dad didn't check it and wouldn't be suspicious if he tried."

                "Our mom was working a night shift at the hospital all night, and our dad is the deepest sleeper ever. We were fine," Talon said.

                "I was good. And we hid out at Nolan's house, so we know he was fine," Tyson said. "We're not stopping the service just because of this. They won't know what old targets we're hitting. We'll keep going, and this time they can't ambush us."

                "He's got a point," Talon said, grinning. "We could keep going and be fine. Probably."

                "We would be fine," Tyson said, sounding confident. I could see the bags under his eyes, but I could also see the pressure on his shoulders. His friends had been shaken badly last night, and they needed his confidence more than he needed their comfort. "Last night caught us off-guard, but we won't let that happen again. We'll be even more careful, and pick our targets in such a calculated way that it'll seem random to them but make perfect sense to us. We're social menaces, remember? What's revenge without a little risk?"

                "They could've broken your nose," Farren said.

                "But they didn't. I still have my perfect face," Tyson said, gesturing to it. "Besides, someone shot my eye out when I was a kid. You really think a broken nose would bother me that much?"

                "I'm just glad you're all okay," Bishopp said, his tone sincere. "Let's take a break for now, okay? We have the Social Action project coming up, so let's focus on that. Let this die down a bit before you make another move."

                "Give Nolan a chance to let his ankle heal," Nyssa said.

                "I know that," Tyson said. "Everyone just be cheerful as hell at the project this weekend, okay? We can't leave any room for doubt or suspicion. We're community-loving, good kids."

                "Are we dismissed yet?" Connor asked.

                "You are, just to get that dog out of my sight before I report you to Principal Devin," Bishopp said.

                "He's stressed!" Connor said.

                "Yea, I'm sure it's the rat who's stressed," Talon said.

                Connor stood up with Jonesy cradled in his arms. "I have to go. I'm going to take Jonesy for a walk."

                As he left the room, Talon rolled his eyes. "He's so bad at handling stress."

                "And you're bad at feeling stress. Our friends were almost caught last night," Nyssa said, hitting him in the arm. "Connor was scared for them. He's just bad at expressing it."

                "We're done for today. Everyone be on time to the project this weekend," Tyson said, waving us all at the door. "Out of my sight."

                "Come over later. Dad's making that grilled chicken you like, and I need help on the math homework," Farren said to Tyson, getting up and grabbing his bag.

                "I'll take the grilled chicken and let you struggle on your own," Tyson said.

                "Homework first, then chicken," Farren said. "Dinner's at 5:30 tonight, don't be late."

                He left the room and the twins followed. Bishopp gathered us his stuff and looked between us.

                "Are you two really okay? It must have been terrifying," he said.

                "'Terrifying' is seeing my mom get her hands on the kid who shot out my eye," Tyson said. "Last night was a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Now get out. You're a teacher, not a therapist. A therapist would make way more money to listen to us bitch."

                Bishopp bit his lip but obeyed and left the room. Tyson came over and sat on my desk, glancing at my ankle.

                "Is it okay?" he asked.

                "It's fine," I promised. "Just a little swollen and swore. It should be fine by the project if I keep it iced and wrapped."

                He gripped my tie and pulled me so I was kissing him. He'd be damned if he let anyone see how shaken he was, even me.

                "When you're ready, I'm here to listen," I said.

                "I'll walk you to your car." He jumped off my desk and helped me up.

                We left the classroom together, walking so close that our shoulders touched and our hands occasionally brushed against each other. We didn't speak on the way there, and we didn't speak when we reached my car. Instead, we kissed each other, hands wrapping around each other in a way words couldn't.

                We didn't say goodbye. It would sound too permanent after last night.

                                                                                                ***

                The neighborhood was run-down, but this particular section of it was crowded with people. My ankle felt a lot better as I walked over to where the Social Action Club members were waiting.

                "You're late," Tyson said.

                "I'm sorry. My Uncle asked me to bring him his lunch to work. He left it at home," I said.

                Tyson slapped a nametag sticker on my chest. "You're with me. We're painting. You wore old clothes you don't care about, yea?"

                I gestured to my outfit. "Does this look like I'm trying to impress you?"

                "It looks like something my mom would burn," Tyson said. "Alright, everyone get to work. Mr. Zigor's men will be leading the volunteers. Let's go, Nolan."

                "What are the others doing?" I asked as I followed Tyson.

                "Connor is helping with measurements and the power tools. The twins are working with their dad. Farren is with his dad, and I think they're drilling frames into place or something," Tyson said. "I figured the painting wouldn't be hard on your ankle."

                "Your ankles are perfectly fine, if I remember correctly," I said.

                "My choices were painting, or passing out drinks. Mr. Zigor said he doesn't want me working with any tools because of my vision problems," Tyson said. "Naturally, I chose painting."

                "Does is bother you?" I asked.

                He shook his head. "Barely. It's irritating, but not hindering."

                We grabbed paint rollers and were given the supplies we'd need. One of Mr. Zigor's employees instructed us on what to do and led us into the room we were painting. It was small, so just the two of us were in here.

                "Special Social Action privileges," Tyson said, pouring the paint. "Try not to make a mess. It doesn't have to be professional, but it does have to be good enough to please anyone who sees it."

                "So, basically, professional," I said.

                "Basically. But I'd hate to pressure you," he said.

                I hit his arm with my paint roller. "Can I switch partners?"

                He dipped his roller into the paint and hit my arm. "Look at that, you're already making a mess of yourself. Even Bob Ross couldn't call this a happy little accident."

                "Will you just get to work?" I said, wiping my arm on his pants.

                "Hey! Keep your messes to yourself. Some of us are professional," he said, shoving my arm away.

                I kissed his lips, using the distraction to wipe the paint from my arm onto his cheek. He pushed my head away, narrowing his eyes at me.

                "This is war. When you're least expecting it, I will get you back for that. I've spent the past four years of my life dedicated to revenge. You've picked a fight with the wrong man, outcast," he warned.

                "Get painting, President," I said. I pointed to his cheek. "Also, you have a little something right there."

                "Better put both of those eyes to good use," he said before dipping the roller into paint and getting to work.

                The painting was slow, because we kept getting distracted by our private paint war. By the time we'd finished, I wasn't sure which had more paint on it: us or the walls.

                "It's going to take forever to get this out of my hair," Tyson said.

                "You're such a diva," I said, helping him clean up.

                "I'm a diva? You screamed when I got paint on your face," he scoffed.

                "Because my face is beautiful," I said, gesturing to it. "Now I look like a 13 year old doing a YouTube makeup tutorial."

                We left the room with the painting equipment, setting it down outside and looking around. This was definitely a good distraction after our disastrous revenge attempt.

                People moved around, smiling and laughing and talking as they worked. The adults directed the kids, teaching them how to do certain things. Everyone was grouped up and working hard. I saw a few people walking around to take pictures and videos.

                Supplies was being moved around and power tools were making loud noises. A select few volunteers were up on the roofs, and I spotted the twins with their dad up there.

                "Let's keep going," Tyson said, nudging me forward. "We can't paint one room and call it a day. I want bragging rights about how useful I was today."

                So we threw ourselves into work, trying not to start up another paint wore as we worked away along. Sometimes we were joined by other volunteers when we worked on bigger rooms. Tyson had his dazzling smile on when they were around, but his playful grin when we were alone.

                The busy atmosphere was good for keeping our minds occupied and our spirits lifted. We were constantly around others, constantly working to help with the houses, and constantly busy. It was tiring work after a while, but we kept at it dutifully.

                By the time it got too dark to see anymore, we'd managed to fix up several houses. Mr. Zigor and Tyson called everyone into a circled group.

                "Thanks to everyone who volunteered to help with this project. We finished up a lot more than we'd originally planned on," Tyson said, dazzling smile on display. Despite his worn out clothes and the paint staining him, he held himself like royalty. "We really made a difference here today. Thank you to the police department, the lovers and protectors of our community. We'll continue to support them just like they've always supported all of us. And a special thank you to Mr. Zigor for leading the project."

                Tyson gestured to Mr. Zigor to speak. "Thanks to the volunteers, like Tyson said. We got so much done today and fixed up quite a few houses. Thank you to everyone who donated money for supplies. I hope we can serve the community again. I hope you're all proud of yourselves. You did amazing work today."

                Tyson nodded. "Great job, everyone. We even made it through with no injuries, which is always a relief. Everyone is free to head home now. Go take a nice, hot shower, and get some sleep. It was a busy day. Let's keep striving to make our community a better, friendlier place."

                Kids talked as they moved around, gathering their things and finding their rides. The Social Action Club grouped up around Tyson and Mr. Zigor as the two shook hands.

                "Sometimes I forget what a little shit you are when you have that smile," Mr. Zigor said, laughing.

                "Little shit? I'm always charming," Tyson said in surprise.

                "I've known you since you were a kid," Mr. Zigor said, clapping Tyson on the shoulder. "Sorry you got stuck painting. Your mom would've torn me apart if you got hurt working another position."

                "I'm just proud your son didn't step on a nail," Tyson said.

                "You and me both," Mr. Zigor said.

                "I'm right here!" Talon said, and I wasn't surprised that his shirt was off and slung around his neck. I guess it was acceptable this time though, since he'd been doing physical work all day.

                "Put your shirt on. I'm going to go speak with my workers quick and then we can go," Mr. Zigor said to his kids before taking off.

                "Good job today, everyone!" Bishopp said. "That went even better than expected. My mom texted me and said we were on the local news."

                "My mom also texted me about that and told me she recorded it but was tempted to delete it because I was covered in paint," Tyson said. "She also threatened to kill me if I got a drop of paint in her house."

                "We'll remember you fondly," I said.

                Tyson shot me a cool look. "I wonder why I'm covered in paint."

                I gave him an innocent smile. "I haven't got a clue."

                "Hey, Ty, someone left this for you," Mr. Zigor said, coming over and handing Tyson an envelope with his name on it.

                Tyson waited until he was gone before opening the envelope. He pulled out the paper inside and I felt my stomach twist at his expression.

                "Tyson?" I said quietly.

                That rage had claimed his expression. But I couldn't tell if his hands were trembling from anger or fear.

                "Ty?" Farren said. "What is it? What does it say?"

                Tyson stared at the paper a moment longer. He glared away from us as he turned the paper so we could read it. Our eyes widened as everything clicked into place and unease wrapped itself tightly around us.

                No one had to tell us it was from Mallory.

                No one had to tell us he wasn't bluffing.

                No one had to tell us everything had come crashing down.

                One small slip of paper, eight simple words, and the threat of their meaning.

                I know, and soon the police will too.