"Turn."

Cade turned sideways, and the counselor leaned closer with his flashlight. They were doing body checks on all the boys, making sure there were no unusual bruises. If they found injury or markings, it was a sign that they'd been in a fight. That meant punishments—if you didn't rat out who'd done it.

Cade couldn't believe that the adults didn't differentiate between fighting and a beatdown. How was it fair that if some boys jumped Cade, the counselors would punish him for get- ting beaten up?

Luckily, his strategy of keeping to himself had kept him mostly safe so far. He got bullied in passing, which had never happened at his old school, but here nobody hated him enough to risk being punished for attacking him.

It wasn't much of an existence, but it would be over eventually. 

The counselor grunted with approval before moving on. They were in a barracks-style room, among wall-to-wall bunk beds. The place was cramped and smelled like a locker room, and he'd even seen mice scampering about. And the counsel- ors only seemed to care about getting through the day and keeping the boys in check. Even the therapy sessions often devolved into sports talk.

He knew not all therapeutic schools were like this. In fact, he knew many of them were good places that helped troubled kids learn leadership and discipline.

He just didn't think this was one of them. And he knew he didn't belong here.

Cade had almost told his parents about the conditions here. But he didn't want to worry them, especially since they couldn't change anything. He didn't mention it on his weekly calls, or the few times they visited.

His dad hadn't visited him for two months. His mom said it was too painful for him, so she came alone the last time. Cade had asked her to stop coming so often. After all, when he had been at the private boarding school, he had seen his parents only a few times a year.

But now Cade couldn't forget the distrust in his father's eyes. The suspicion. The doubt. Before, they had been thick as thieves. Now . . . he didn't want to think about it.

"Nice chicken legs," said a kid standing behind Cade. "You got some spaghetti arms too, damn. Yo, guys . . ."

Cade swiftly tugged his uniform back on, and the kid gave up, his friends uninterested in mocking Cade's body. He'd always been thin and had already lost weight at the school, in part because Gobbler stole his food several times a week—and what he didn't steal, Cade rarely finished.

This was compounded with the exercises they did, seem- ingly endless push-ups, jumping jacks, and interval courses. Despite the exercise, he felt himself weakening. Drifting through the corridors like a ghost, careful not to be seen, not to be heard. He never spoke at their group therapy sessions— but then, few did.

A shout snapped Cade out of his reverie, and he suddenly saw two kids wrestling further down the room. The counselor had moved on to the rec room to check on the others.

It was typical. Scores were always settled directly after the body checks; it gave the best chance of any bruises to heal before the next inspection.

But this was more than a tussle, he realized. It was two on one, and Cade recognized all of them. Gobbler had pinned someone to the ground, and Jim was helping him, if somewhat reluctantly. And he'd know those glasses anywhere. They had jumped Spex.

"Get him up," Finch said, striding into view, a few of his cronies following.

Cade could see the reluctance on Jim's face, and in his body language. It was like he was trying to hold Spex without actually touching him.

"Heard you've been talking shit about me, Spex," Finch said as Gobbler hauled the boy to his feet.

"I didn't say anything, man. You got the wrong guy." Spex's chest heaved with fear, and his words were choked by Gobbler's thick forearm around his neck. 

Finch tapped his chin. "Maybe."

He stared contemplatively at Spex, then his fist whipped forward, thudding into the boy's stomach. Spex doubled over as the breath whooshed out of him, followed by a mouthful of vomit.

For the briefest moment, Spex caught Cade's eye and, despite the pain, he motioned with his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Just in case," Finch said.

Cade knew what Spex wanted. He wanted Cade to get an adult. But that was taking a side. That was making a choice.

"Jim, get over here," Finch said.

Jim went to stand beside him, and Cade could see the terror on Jim's face.

"Hit him," Finch said.

Cade stayed hidden in the shadow of the doorway. The corridor was so close—the rec room just a few dozen feet away. He could do it. And yet he was frozen by indecision. By fear. He felt sickened with himself.

"He l-looks like he's had enough," Jim stuttered.
Finch laughed.
"He's faking," he said, lifting Spex's chin, drool dribbling

from the boy's mouth. Spex was gasping like a beached fish, taking small, shallow breaths.

"Come on. Do you have my back or not?"

Jim hung his head, and Spex turned his face to Cade once more. Pleading with his eyes.

Cade knew why they'd picked Spex: he had no real friends to protect him. There would be no retaliation, only a small risk of intervention. Finch was a cold, calculating bastard. 

Now that Cade thought about it, it could easily have been him. They'd just spotted Spex first.

"You're with us, or you're with him," Finch said, moving closer and forcing Jim to meet his gaze. Now, Finch's face was an inch from Jim's, and Cade saw the boy's resolve waver.

Again, Cade glanced at the door, only to see another member of Finch's crew standing outside. A lookout. Cade doubted they would stop him from leaving, but they'd know who'd gone for help. Cade willed himself to move, but he stayed rooted to the spot.

"Come on," Cade urged himself under his breath. "Do it."

There was a slap. Cade saw the imprint of Jim's palm blazing red across Spex's cheek, and heard glasses clatter to the ground. Then a crunch as Finch stomped down, shattering them. Jim had made his choice. And Cade his.

"Good man," Finch said, clapping Jim on the back.

Gobbler left Spex to collapse to his knees, and the group filed out of the room, congratulating Jim.

"Oh, and Spex?" Finch called over his shoulder. "If you tell anyone about this, I will hunt you down. Blind you permanent." Then they were gone, their laughter receding down the corridor.

Spex cradled the broken pieces of his glasses in his hands, blood bubbling on the corner of his mouth. Cade hurried over, picking up the pieces and placing them in Spex's hands.

"Cade?" Spex said, looking blearily up at him.

"I'm so sorry, Spex. There was a guy at the door...I couldn't."

"Yeah. Whatever," Spex said, touching the side of his mouth. His lip was swollen. There was no hiding that. Serious punishments were meted out for fighting, and it would only be worse if Spex didn't tell them who else had been involved.

"You gonna tell?" Cade whispered.
"Nah," Spex said.
Cade hovered uncertainly. Spex wiped his chin and staggered to the nearest bunk.

"Can I . . . can I get you anything?"
Spex shook his head, staring at his broken glasses.
"Just leave me alone," he whispered.
Cade opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then he went back to his bed, staring at the names scratched into the metal slats of the bunk above him. There was nothing he could have done.

So why did he feel so guilty?