The metal cuffs roughly scrape against my skin. My wrists ache from it, as well as from the bench–it's not comfortable at all.

I try to focus, but my mind keeps spiralling.

Attempting to think about the previous events is impossible. Everytime I think I've managed to grab onto a memory, it vanishes like sand between my fingers.

The door creaks open suddenly. A man. A cop.

I back up without realizing as he sits down, the chair squeaking over the hard ground. He has a bald spot on top of his head, surrounded by gray hairs. A freshly-shaved beard. Soft expression.

"You get why you're here, right?"

My body nods before I can think it through. No. I don't get why I'm here, and I sure as hell don't know why I'm here.

"Good," he pauses for a moment. "You're going to have to help yourself. We have witnesses." The man looks through a pile of papers. "People say you got involved. Correct?"

I nod again. I can't help it.

Blood splatters onto my vision when I move my head. Surprised, I freeze. The cop looks at me for a few seconds, then continues asking me questions I can't hear.

I look down at my hands. More blood splashes, creeping into the edges of my vision, slowly pulling me under. My fingers twitch, but I can't feel them. I can't feel anything except for the buzzing ache at the back of my head. I twist my head in an attempt to get rid of it. A groan escapes me. More blood that becomes darker by the second.

The man's voice echoes. My eyes slowly, painfully, trail back up. All that's left of the cop is a blurry mess of neutral colors. The second I close my eyes, they never open again.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I'm sitting at my desk.

My laptop is open in front of me. So are my school books. My fingers are wrapped loosely around my pen, its ink spread all around my notes.

I guess I fell asleep and had a dream about being arrested... why not.

Today is Monday. I'm supposed to be at the track field in half an hour. The annoying ache remains annoying me in the back of my head. Of course I have to feel shitty on my first work day.

But I'm still going to go. This might be my only chance of proving myself. Feeling unwell is just a lame excuse. Besides, all I have to do is train some kids how to run faster.

Dad and Dariel are both at work right now—obviously. I'm home alone. Thank God. If Dariel saw me asleep at my desk, he'd probably laugh his ass off before telling me I'd never be a good business man.

Good for him I don't want to be one. I have no idea what I do want to become, but once again, it will not be a nine to five job. Not in an office, at least.

I give up on geography and walk down the stairs. My vision sways as I do so, the splashes of blood now replaced with black dots. For a moment, I sit down mid stairs, rubbing my temples before I get back up.

The sound of an ice cold can of coke opening please me. I take three giant gulps, wait a minute, and take three more. Sugar will get me back on my feet in no time.

I consider going to Mom after work. Dad doesn't even notice my absence and at the moment, I couldn't care less about Dariel. Everything, including my own bedroom, is better at Mom's. At least she'll be there in case I fall asleep again.

I need to pass this year. Not only do I want to be in high school until I'm twenty, but I will also seem less mature in front of Luciana.

Mom

Can I stay at yours after work?

Ask your father.

But he'll decline for no decent reason! He won't notice my absence if I don't tell him. He barely talks to me

Staying at my house will only cause more trouble with your father, Minho.

I'm turning nineteen in fifteen days to be exact. I think I have the right to choose a permanent house by now

Yes, but not without discussing it. I'll see you Wednesday, okay?

Pleaseeeee

No, Minho, not this time.

But I don't feel wellllll

Excuses.

I mean it

You just said you're almost nineteen. I think you can handle feeling sick.

Fine. She has a point. Normally, Mom gets super concerned when I don't feel well, but I guess it's alright that she thinks it's just an excuse.

Sighing, I dress into some kind of sporty outfit, pack my bag, and jump onto my bike. It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the track field.

I'm twenty minutes early. There's two kids and my boss. Perfect.

"Hey, Minho!" The man calls me over, shaking my hand. "Good to see you. How are you doing?"

"I'm alright, sir."

"Just call me Jorge," he responds. "You can put your bag near that bench. It's the start of a season, so we'll be doing some basic exercises. Today's group ranges from nine to twelve years old. Think we can handle that?"

I nod. The action nearly makes me lose my balance until I take a deep breath. "Yes."

"Perfect. We'll have a talk after this. See what days you'll be working and what age ranges you prefer."

"Yes, sir—Jorge."

More kids start loading in, some rather talkative, others rather quiet and anxious. The diversity between girls and boys looks quite even.

"Good evening," Jorge's loud voice makes them fall silent. "Today, I brought you guys a new, young coach—unlike me."

As their eyes fall on me, I realize I need to speak. "Hi. My name is Minho, but you can call me whatever. I'm used to anything. Eh, yeah. Do you want to know anything else?"

A hand raises. "How old are you?"

"I'm almost nineteen."

Another hand. "How fast can you run?"

"I don't know. What do you think is fast?"

"Can you run around the whole field in one minute?"

"I think so, yes," I confirm.

Something about the way their face lights up makes me smile. Then, a third hand. "Are you stern?"

"You'll have to find out."

A few more basic questions follow. Jorge stops us after a while, chuckling. "Alright. Go warm up. You know what to do."

All kids head off onto the field. The loud ones are speedy, sprinting the first fifty meters before some of them end up on the ground, gasping for air. Others are smart, running at a low pace and returning from two rounds in no time.

"Now, I want you guys to think about your goals for the coming weeks. I have a paper for each one of you. Your previous scores are noted down. Write your new goals down next or below it." Jorge hands me half of the papers. I stare at the names, unsure what to do before I call one of them.

A girl runs up to me with a grin, takes her paper, and lies down on the ground to write her new goals down. I call every name until my stack is gone.

"You'll get to know their names over time," Jorge assures. I nod.

"Is this good?" A boy runs up to me, showing what he wrote in messy handwriting: run faster than my brother.

"Well, is your brother fast?"

"Very," he confirms. "But I'm going to be faster."

I hand him the paper back. "Good mindset."

Jorge claps his hands, grabbing everyone's attention again. "Alright! We're going to do some basic exercises. Minho, you up for demonstration?"

"Always."

My boss motions at the track field. "Start with acceleration skills. It's an important step to improving your time."

"What is that?" A girl asks, attempting to pronounce acceleration.

"It's how fast you start," I explain. "If you need to run just fifty meters as fast as possible, but you start very slowly, you'll never get a good time."

She nods.

I stretch my arms and roll my shoulders as I walk forward. The pain in my head hasn't completely faded, but I ignore it for now.

"Watch carefully, guys." Jorge blows the whistle.

I shoot forward, desperate to leave a good impression on these kids. The wind rushes past my face. My legs carry me across the track in a steady pace.

After a few seconds, I slow down and jog back to the group. Most kids are indeed watching with admiration—that feeling almost outweighs the thought of Luciana.

"Nice work, Minho." Jorge claps me on the shoulder. "Now you guys need to try. Get in line and start when I blow the whistle. Run the whole 400 meters."

Most of the kids are beaming as they obey. Half of them run off like maniacs once Jorge signals them. One almost trips over his own feet while a girl somewhat walks.

"Hey, listen!" I catch up with fast ones. "You guys are starting way too fast—"

"But you did, too! And we were supposed to work on our acceleration"

"Yes," I sigh out. "But it's also about balance. You'll never finish the round successfully if you waste all your energy in the beginning. Is that understandable?"

The four boys nod, snickering.

"What's so funny?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Do you like gaming?"
"Have you ever skipped school before?"
"How can you run so fast?"

"Woah, woah, one at a time!"

"Have you ever skipped school?"

Do I remain a good example or do I tell them the truth?

I crouch down. "If you promise not to tell anyone, I won't tell anyone about your bad acceleration skills."

They nod heavily.

"Okay. Maybe I've skipped a few times now and then. But you should never do that. I need to redo a year, and it's horrible!"

"Do you like gaming? What's your favorite game? I'm not allowed to play GTA. Are you allowed to play GTA? Have you ever played Minecraft before?"

"Sometimes, I do play GTA, yeah," I admit. "What's your favorite game?"

"Minecraft," they all say in unison. "What do you do in GTA? My older brother says he visits the strip club. What's a strip club—"

Sounds like me talking to my coach back when Dariel played violent games.

"Erm, I kind of just drive around," I lie. "But Minecraft is cool, too. Do you often play?"

"My mom had to put a limit on my screen time," one of them pouts. "And how do you run so fast?"

"Lots of training and consistency."

"Do you have a girlfriend? I'm married to two girls! Are you married? I married last Friday, during our lunch break."

"Two girls? That's... a lot," I manage. The image of Luciana rushes to my mind. The desire to be able to say I'm her boyfriend. The mere idea of it makes me want to lie down on the ground and just dream about it for the rest of the night. "And no, I don't have a girlfriend."

"You don't have a girlfriend? But you're old," says the one that looks the youngest out of all.

"No, he's not old," says the oldest one. "It's okay. You can spend more time with us." He pats my knee.

"Do you at least have an eye on someone?" Asks the third one. The last boy's eyes wide in curiosity.

With a final exhale, I nod. "Yeah."

"Woah!" As if it's the biggest achievement, they gasp. "What does she look like?"

"She has dark hair, just past her shoulder, and the most beautiful blue eyes. She's really, really pretty."

"Have you asked her out yet?"

I shake my head.

"Why not? It's easy. My friend says that as long as you have a nice personality or nice looks, you can get with anyone."

"She's dating someone else." No way I'm telling little kids all of this before I've even told my mom.

It's refreshing in some ways, though. They will either snitch immediately or will keep this secret until they die.

"Oh, that sucks," they whisper. "Can't you just tell her you're better than that person?"

I shake my head. Luckily, Jorge blows his whistle—a sign for us to head back.