Margie's wish is granted: Davy stays away from our table. In return, she actually says hello to Haley and me before popping in her earbuds. Davy's absence wasn't intentional on my part, though, and it makes me wonder if he only came to our table yesterday because he needed my advice, which is confirmed when he shows up at my locker again after class.

"Did you talk to Haley?"

"Oh. Yeah, but I didn't get to ask him about his feelings, so . . ." I shrug with an apologetic smile. "Better luck next time?"

He sighs and grabs his phone. "Give me your number."

When he's finished putting it in, he calls me, letting it ring for a moment before pocketing the phone again. He tells me very pointedly to text him if I learn something, as if I was planning on texting him for anything else.

I save his number as "Davy (not Sam) Harding."

Then we part ways, and I go through all the motions again—Kurt picks me up from school, we have dinner, I walk to the store, Stacie lets me take inventory and help customers. A very normal day.

Until I'm walking home.

The late night breeze alerts me to their presence before they grab me from behind, but for all my nose is worth, half a second isn't enough to stop several people from dragging me into an alley—it only gave my heart a head start. I cry out against the hand over my face and wriggle desperately, uselessly. There are too many of them, restraining me, squeezing my arms to the point where it hurts.

"What did we tell you, Reed?"

I'm so focused on trying to get away from them that I don't recognize the voice at first. The bored tone is what does it. Daniel Gonzalez. I force myself to calm down and identify the other scents through the gap between my assaulter's fingers: Bennett Donahue, Emre Osman . . . and Sam Harding.

Sam fucking Harding, who apologized to me and said he meant it.

I don't know the fifth person, but I suddenly don't give a shit. I jerk my head back to free my mouth and say, "Nothing that should fucking matter because Haley told you to back off."

Daniel is in front of me now, rolling his eyes. "You think just because Haley picked you to be his little social experiment, that we can't hurt you? Sure, we can't stop him from talking to you, but we can stop you from talking to him."

Someone knees me in the side, and I gasp, curling in on myself. As far as that's possible, anyway—I'm not going anywhere with how well they're keeping me in place. They're certainly not lacking strength.

"It's pretty easy," Daniel says, "you see?"

There's laughter, and my face burns. With anger or embarrassment, I can't tell. I'm feeling a lot of things, but apparently not enough. Fists start to fly, and every blow cripples me, numbs me, until I barely feel anything at all. They don't leave a second for me to recover, let alone retaliate.

I'm not sure I could. Not like this.

They must let go of me at some point because, next thing I know, I'm on the ground, but I can't get away. I can't do anything about them kicking the life out of me. All I can do is lie there and let it happen.

My head is ringing, screaming at me to get up and make this fight fair—they wouldn't dare attack me if I was in my bear form. I know now how Haley feels when he stands in front of a pool of blood unable to move because he can't focus on anything but the war in his mind. My skin is tingling, even through the agony, begging for release. I would tear right through my clothes. I would rip them to shreds with my claws. I would growl and roar at them until they pissed their pants. I would make them run home crying.

But I can't.

I repeat my mother's words to me like a mantra. Breathe, honey, breathe. Count to twenty. Don't forget to breathe, honey—slowly. In, out, in, out . . .

A foot lands in my stomach, pushing all the air out of me.

Something in me spasms, and I gasp and wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, all thoughts of breathing calmly gone from my mind. I only want air, please—

" . . . enough."

Nausea hits me so bad, I feel as though I should throw up.

"Dude."

"Shut up."

I heave and retch. Nothing comes out.

"Seriously, that's enough. Let's go."

"You go, if you can't stomach it."

There's a scuffle.

Someone grunts.

It's Sam Harding, I suddenly realize.

"You're just a soft as your brother," Daniel says. "I bet you're both sucking Haley's dick. Oh, wait—he doesn't want you, so you settled for his sister."

"Fuck you."

I raise my head to look at them, but instead, I'm facing a wall graced with a green penis. A green penis with pink balls. My laugh comes out like another wheeze.

"Look at him," Sam says. "He's totally fucked up. He got the message."

"Yeah, let's go," says Bennett.

Daniel scoffs and walks away. The others follow.

Sam is the only one who lingers.

Our eyes meet, and he stares at me, frozen. He doesn't say anything, and I don't know what he would have said if he did, but it doesn't matter. He leaves, too.

As the sound of his footsteps fades, I collapse on the ground, pressing my face against the cold pavement beneath me, and all of a sudden, all at once, I feel everything. The pounding in my head and the pain—oh, the pain. I can still feel every punch, every kick. I'm no stranger to pain, but I've never . . .

This is more than pain.

Haley was a fool for thinking he could convince his friends to leave me alone, and I was an even bigger fool for believing him. Maybe not at first, but these past few days, I was starting to think it was actually possible. I was starting to think it might not all be so bad. The truth is, they don't care and they never will.

It's easier to pretend none of this means anything when it's not personal, but I can't think of them as boys who repeat shitty lines from shitty movies anymore. This is not a movie. My friendship with Haley is real, and these threats are real, too. Even if we can come up with some way to punish them, they won't stop. They'll find another way. And I hate that I have to sit here and accept defeat, that I have to pretend to be powerless, all because it's more dangerous for me to protect myself than to just let this shit happen. I absolutely hate it. What's the point of having all this power if I can't use it?

I press my lips together as tears fill my eyes. I move my hand to wipe them away and find no obstruction; I'm not wearing my glasses. Panic shoots through me, and I start feeling around, patting the ground, until my fingers touch a metal frame. . . . An empty, bent metal frame. The glass is gone.

A sob escapes my throat.

It's stupid. This is so stupid—they're just glasses, but I can't stop. Every breath hurts, but the tears just keep coming. I press my sleeves against my eyes and scoot backward, gritting my teeth against the pain. With my back against Haley's dick graffiti, I wait until I can breathe normally again.

Then I start checking for injuries.

Unfortunately, all I can really say for sure is that everything hurts. I need to go to the hospital if I want to know if anything is broken or seriously damaged. If only I had fucking health insurance. I'll be nice and purple by tomorrow, at least.

Dropping my head against the wall, I let out a sigh. It takes some effort to get my phone out of my pocket since my ribs are protesting, and I slowly scroll through my contacts, squinting to read the names. It's not a very long list, even with my old friends among them. I'm not sure why they're still in there, honestly. The only people who matter are Kurt, Haley, and Stacie, if my boss even counts as that. And Davy . . . he's a separate category all on his own.

I decide that Kurt's out of the question.

It's already bad enough that I've basically inserted myself into his life, his house, and his finances, even if he never complains about it—insisted on it, even. I don't want to burden him with this, especially because he'll try to give up even more of his time and money to help me. Well, I won't let him.

My thumb hovers over Haley's name.

Every five seconds, I come close to tapping the call button, I change my mind again, and the cycle repeats. I know Haley would be more than happy to help, and they can certainly afford to—that's not the problem. I'm just . . . I'm scared they'll do something impulsive and stupid out of anger, and I don't want to argue. I really don't feel like arguing.

Fuck it. I scroll up and press a different button. It rings four times.

Then, I hear a click.

Silence follows.

"Hello?" I croak.

"Oh, it is you," Davy says. "I thought you pocket-dialed me. Why are you calling?"

"Um—" I clear my throat and press a hand to my side as it protests against being used while I speak. "Sorry to bother you, but could you, uh . . . could you take me to the hospital?"

More silence.

"It's not a joke," I add.

"What the fuck? What happened?"

I sigh. "If you come and get me, I'll explain."

After a moment, he says, "Okay. Where are you?"

☽〇☾

Every time I hear the engine of a car, I crane my neck, hoping to see Davy coming around the corner. At some point, I even start to wonder if I should have just called 222 and asked for an ambulance to come pick me up. That would have been a nightmare, though, so I'm glad he shows up eventually.

"Shit," he says when he finds me still on the ground.

"Don't tell me I look like shit, too," I joke.

He shakes his head and leans down to get me up.

My body complains intensely.

"What happened?" Davy asks again while leading me to his convertible. It's parked by the road—it couldn't be farther away. "And why didn't you call Haley?"

"He would have lost it."

"What? Why—who did this?"

"Take a wild guess."

"What do you mean? How should I know?"

"Well, you know your friends. You know your brother."

That makes him go quiet. He doesn't say anything until we're in the car. He turns the key in the ignition and mutters, "Fucking idiot."

I nod. I'm glad he agrees.

His driving is a bit too fast for my liking, and I'm not sure if that's because he's taking me to the hospital or if that's just his driving style, but tonight I don't care. I'm just happy someone is taking me.

Davy helps me out of the car again once we're there, too, which is awkward but appreciated. So is the fact that he walks with me, as short a distance it may be. Larkwood Hospital isn't very big; the most elaborate parts of it are the emergency department and the pharmacy. Of course, it has a few basic support units, but you're better off going to one of the hospitals in St. Richard or a specialized clinic if you want a specific kind of treatment.

Not that I need any of that—Davy takes me straight to the side of the hospital where the emergency department is. Thankfully, despite its size, there aren't a lot of people in the waiting room.

Davy disappears, and I assume he's gone back home now that I'm in good hands, but he returns later to tell me he has somehow managed to get the hospital to send the medical bill to his brother. "It wasn't hard," he says, giving me a rare smile. "It helps that we have the same birthday and the same face. Don't forget to call me Samuel."

I laugh, which makes my chest hurt again.

Even after the examination, for some reason, Davy stays. He asks me how bad the damage is, seeming genuinely concerned, or at least interested, so I tell him, "Oh, well, nothing's broken, aside from my glasses, but my ribs are gonna be bruised for a while. The doctor told me I'm lucky I've got 'some meat on my bones.' I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not."

Davy shrugs.

I decide not to take offense—my "meat" did save me from worse injuries. Also, the doctor gave me a bunch of painkillers, so I can't be too mad at him.

"Are you gonna tell Haley?" Davy asks.

"It'd be hard not to."

Davy nods slowly before glancing at me. "You know . . . you said he would have gone crazy or whatever, right? He'll definitely freak out if you show up at school looking like this, so you should probably stay home tomorrow."

"I wasn't really planning on going to school with bruised ribs, Davy."

"Right."

"I'll just ask him to come over. That's safer, anyway."

"Good idea," he says, as if there was ever any other option. "So who were the others who beat you up? I assume Daniel was there. It was his idea to beat you up the first time. Not that I was going to, by the way. Just, uh, for the record."

I sigh. "Sure."

"Seriously. I thought scaring you off would be enough, you know? I didn't really think about what we'd do if it wasn't or that Daniel would actually do it."

Somehow, I believe that.

Thinking is not exactly Davy's strongest suit.

"Okay," I say, because actions speak louder than words, and he's here right now instead of beating me up, like his brother. Whether he planned to do it doesn't matter anymore. "Anyway, Emre and Bennett were there, too. And some guy I didn't recognize. Tall, dark hair, kinda tan."

"Probably one of Daniel's cousins."

I don't remember him smelling like he was related to Daniel—family members have similar scents—but I wasn't really paying attention, and I'm too tired to question it. Maybe he's a distant cousin.

Either way, I'm not sure what to do with that information, with knowing who was involved with this. Theoretically, I could get Haley to help me press charges, but . . . I don't know. I can't guarantee it'll be worth the time and effort. Rich people get away with shit like this all the time. If not because they have power and wealth, then because of discrimination and favoritism. It's alarmingly easy for them to get charges like these dropped, and there aren't enough witnesses to prove them wrong. In fact, there are none.

There has to be an easier solution.

When the doctor tells me I'm good to go, Davy takes me home.

I try to be quiet, but the house is small, and the walls are thin. Kurt kicks up a storm a tornado would be jealous of. Since I didn't tell him who did it, it's directed at no one in particular—the upper class, politicians, cops, even the doctors and my optician. He's angry at everyone and everything.

And I get it, I really do, but I can't deal with this right now. I sit down on the bed with a sigh and tell him, "I don't wanna talk about this."

"Gus, you can't just—"

"Please. I need sleep."

That shuts him up. "Of course. Sorry. Do you need me to stay home tomorrow?"

"No." Please, no. "If I need anything, I'll call."

"Okay. Don't hesitate to call, alright?"

"I won't."

He nods and walks to the door. "I'll call the school in the morning and, uh . . ." He knocks on the doorframe, clearing his throat. "I'll get you some extra pillows."

I smile at him. "Thanks."

☽〇☾