Three guys. Older than me. Standing outside a gas station, lighting cigarettes, laughing too loud. The kind of guys who didn’t need a reason to start shit. The kind of guys who would take one look at me and decide they had a problem.

Perfect.

I pulled into the lot, killed the engine, and got out of the car. The second I stepped into the glow of the flickering gas station sign, they looked up.

One of them—tall, shaved head, too many rings—grinned. “You lost or something?”

I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that had settled there, but all it did was make the itch in my knuckles worse. “Not really.”

The second guy—shorter, stockier, chewing on a toothpick—tilted his head. “You looking for trouble?”

“Yeah,” I said foolishly. “I think I am.”

That got a laugh. A dismissive this dumbass really thinks he’s about to start something kind of laugh. The third guy—quiet, lean, tired-looking—exhaled smoke, watching me like he was already deciding whether I was worth the effort.

Shaved Head took a step closer. “That right?”

I stared at him, letting the weight of my own anger settle between us like a loaded gun.

“You got a death wish, kid?”

“Something like that.” And then I swung.

I don’t remember much after that.

Just the sickening crunch of my knuckles splitting against his cheekbone. Just the way my head snapped to the side when the second guy got a hit in. Just the way it felt—the impact, the adrenaline surging through my body like something close to relief. The world blurred into fists and the taste of blood in my mouth.

For a few minutes I didn’t feel like I was drowning in the numbers that wouldn’t add up. I didn’t feel anything at all.

By the time I hit the pavement, my body was a mess of bruises and exhaustion. One of the guys spat on the ground near my head, shaking out his hand. “Crazy little shit,” he hissed.

And then they were gone.

I stayed there for a long moment, sprawled out under the open sky, breathing through the sharp pain in my jaw.

The worst part? It didn’t even hurt enough.

I dragged myself up slowly, spitting blood onto the pavement. My lip was split. My knuckles were shredded. My ribs screamed in protest as I stumbled back toward the car.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, wincing at the sting. Pain was good, though. Pain was a reminder. Pain meant I was still here. Still stuck in this body, in this city, in this life where Beverly Price could be mine if only things were different.

I leaned against the hood of Mom’s car, tilting my head back.

Above me, the sky stretched out in deep, dark blue.

The same sky that had watched her say goodbye to me.