After visiting Jorge once again, I walk through the empty streets. I know I should quit hanging out with them, but it's not that easy. Maybe this one of the last times, though.

I'm almost at the hangout spot, when sometimes crunches below my shoes. My eyebrows furrow as I look down.

A pair of headphones— who the hell leaves their headphones out in the open like that?

Once I look closer, I recognize them; the brand, the rough edges, the smudged stickers.

They're Sander's.

I look up again, eyebrows even more crunched. This doesn't feel right. He wouldn't leave them here like this, especially not on the ground.

Then I see it. The few red stains on the pavement. Blood.

It takes a whole to process this. It could mean a lot of things, but only one thing actually makes sense.

Before I know it, I'm rushing back to the dorm, my heart pounding in my chest. What if he isn't there? Maybe that means he's at the hospital, but that also means he's hurt badly— that isn't any better.

Breathing heavily, I burst into his bedroom. Sander's already on the floor. There's cut in his lip, holding an ice pack against his swollen eye with bruised knuckles that tremble ever so slightly.

"Who did this to you?"

His eyes snaps up, and I catch a flash of pain through them. "Who do you think?" He snaps.

I kneel down in front of him. Blood seems to be everywhere—it makes my windpipe tighten. "What can I do?" I panic. "Where does it hurt the most? Have you—"

Sander pushes me away, hard. I fall backwards, back slamming into the wall. He doesn't even look surprised by it.

So he meant to do that.

"Oh, is that how you're playing?" I stand up. "I'm not responsible for their actions."

His eyes are blazing despite the swelling, blood drying in streaks down his face as he stands up. "They didn't just come out of nowhere."

I step back. "You don't know what you're talking about," I say defensively, though the guilt gnaws at my chest. "I didn't tell them to do this. I didn't even know—"

"They knew because of you!" Sander snaps, cutting me off. He stumbles a little, clutching his side. "You've been hanging around those assholes for weeks. You think they didn't pick up on every little thing about me? About you?"

My jaw tightens. "You think I sent them after you? Are you serious right now?"

"Whatever, Newt. It happened. Just don't act soft around me as long as they're still your friends." He slumps back down to the ground.

I hesitate, not sure whether to leave or to stay, but something about the way his hand trembles as he presses the ice pack against his face, keeps me rooted to the spot. Slowly, I kneel down again.

"Let me help," I say softly. It's not a question.

Sander flinches away. "Don't touch me."

I pull my hand back, stung. "You can't stay like this," I say. "You're still bleeding. Your eye's—"

"Don't touch me." His voice is louder this time. He moves to stand again, but his knees buckle, and I catch him before he can hit the floor.

"I'm not leaving you like this," I say firmly, ignoring the way he tries to fight me off. I half-drag him toward his bed, lowering him carefully even as he glares at me as if I'm the one who did this.

I grab a towel from the corner of his room and head to the bathroom, running it under warm water before wringing it out. When I return, Sander's still sitting there, staring at the wall like he's a thousand miles away.

I kneel in front of him again, carefully dabbing at the dried blood on his face. He flinches at the touch but doesn't pull away.

"You should've gone to the hospital," I murmur. "We should go—"

"Yeah, because that's exactly what I need—more people asking questions, staring at me like I'm some kind of freak."

"You're not a freak," I say, sharper than I mean to. "Not... not like that, at least."

"Still sounds like a freak to me."

I don't respond. As I work, I notice how badly his knuckles are scraped up, the skin raw and bleeding. "Give me your hand," I say quietly.

He hesitates, but eventually, he lets me take it. I clean the cuts as gently as I can. When I'm done, I sit back on my heels, looking at him. "You didn't deserve this," I say. "You know that, right?"

"Doesn't matter," he mutters. "It happened anyway." Before I can warn him not to, he's already waddling to the kitchen.

I remain in his bedroom, taking just a minute to calm down so I won't yell at him—

Thud. I jump up three seconds later. "Sander?" And nearly trip over his body on the floor.

Shit. He's out. I'm helpless for a while. He's losing blood from the back of his head—a place I didn't notice was wounded.

Finally, senses come back to me. I call nine-one-one as fast as I can, crouching down next to Sander. I lie him on his side, like the man on the phone instructs me to do, and wait.