After a foggy start to Monday's school day, Lyla went to the girls' room and splashed water on her face. When she checked herself in the mirror, she scarcely recognized the tortured young woman looking back at her. She leaned closer to the mirror and saw something different, something unfamiliar in her eyes, likely due to a lack of sleep. She felt jumpy, nervous, anxious. Her hands trembled, she was nauseated. Were these the lingering effects of the drug finally wearing off, or maybe something else?

Throughout the day, Jack remained elusive. When she saw him in the cafeteria, he refused eye contact. It was as though he believed that by ignoring her he could erase the events that had transpired that tragic Saturday night. Though he was distant, and perhaps would never again speak a word to Lyla, they were forever linked. They were the only two living people on the planet who knew what had happened that night on a desolate country road.

Sure, he was still the hottest guy at school, and girls continued to flirt shamelessly but he had changed. His carefree smile, his bright eyes, the ease with which he carried himself, all of those qualities had been diminished.

With Carissa always on guard, there was no opportunity for Lyla to approach him. While passing in the halls, she could feel Carissa's suspicious eyes on her. Jack was off-limits. Lyla longed to be alone with him if for only a few brief moments, to thank him again for putting himself out there, for saving her life. But she could read the signals. Stay away.

On her way to sixth-period bio class, she let out a 20-second yawn. "Longest. Day. Ever," she grumbled to her best friend.

"Good luck staying awake in Paulson's class." Darcy grinned.

The thought of it drew another long yawn.

Darcy waved to Richie who approached from the opposite end of the hall. From his neatly pressed Tommy Hilfiger chinos to his Warby Parker frames, Richie stood out in the sea of denim, t-shirts, and hoodies.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Darcy girl." He looked her up and down. "But isn't there a rule against wearing the same top every day of the week?"

"What rule?"

"It's an unwritten rule that we, as a civilized society, have agreed upon. This is why you need to come to the meetings."

"I haven't worn this since..."

"What's wrong? Washing machine broke?"

Lyla cracked up.

"You need to understand," said Darcy. "This isn't Fashion Darcy. This is Roll-Out-Of-Bed-Ten-Minutes-Before-First-Period Darcy. Besides, I like this top."

"The rest of us are tired of looking at it."

"Oof," aid Lyla.

"And that's offensive how?" He shrugged. "Later, ladies." He grinned and went on his way down the hall.

Darcy noticed a food stain on her top. "Well, I can always count on Richie for an honest opinion."

"Whether you asked for it or not," Lyla replied.

In sixth-period bio class, Lyla could barely keep her eyes open. As usual, the room was hot as hell. The nasal, droning voice of the teacher, Mister Paulson, anesthetized her. She glanced over at Darcy who hid her sleeping eyes behind her copper bangs. Lyla couldn't suppress another long yawn as she glanced out the window.

Gray clouds hung low over the soccer field, a distant rumble of thunder threatened.

Across the field, a solitary figure in a faded green jacket stood motionless. She rubbed her eyes and squinted. Her heart pounded. It looked like a young guy, but he was too far away to see clearly. She strained.

CRACK. A flash of lightning lit up the windows. Two girls seated closest to the windows screamed.

"Holy crap!" Darcy gulped. "Scared the hell out of me!"

Lyla rose from her seat, craning her neck. The figure was gone.