But no matter how much pressure I applied or how pink and raw my skin became, I couldn’t wash away the feeling of helplessness, the shame I shouldn’t even have felt. I couldn’t scrub away the memory; it lingered, ghostly and insidious, crawling up my spine like an infection I couldn’t cure.

I flinched as the heat of the water finally registered, realizing too late that I’d stayed in too long again. My skin screamed in protest, and I hurriedly rinsed the soap off my body, my movements becoming panicked.

The steam was choking me now, the space too small, too enclosed.

I had to stop.

I had to get dressed, get out of the bathroom, out of the heat, out of my head.

With shaking hands, I turned off the water, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. A noise from downstairs caught my attention—Dad’s voice, gruff and familiar, followed by a deeper chuckle.

My hands fumbled as I reached for a towel, quickly drying myself off before throwing on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt.

As I made my way downstairs, the conversation sharpened into words. I reached the bottom step just in time to hear Dad say, “—walked all the way to the hospital.” He was shaking his head with something between admiration and disbelief. “Not bad for a boy with one working leg.”

Alaric, one of Dad’s colleagues at the station, sat across from him at the dining table, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he reached for his beer. He was Dad’s age, but meatier, heavier in build. They had matching expressions—tired, serious, the kind of men who had seen enough of the world to know its ugliest truths.

“Yeah, admirable for a guy with one working leg to drag himself to the hospital like that,” Alaric mused. “That kid’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed. What the hell was he thinking trying to stop a mugging? Said it was a whole group of them. Enormous guys. Wrestlers, he called them.” He took a swig of his beer, then sighed, shaking his head again. “Crazy people out there.”

“He goes to your school,” Mom said, turning her gaze to me.

I froze, fingers tightening around the stair railing.

Alaric nodded. “Your grade, actually.”

I knew what was coming before the name left his lips.

“Mason.”

Blake’s fork scraped against his plate.

Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I stepped into the kitchen, forcing my expression into something neutral.

My lips pressed into a thin line as I shrugged.

Blake sat at the table, quiet, unmoving, but I could feel his eyes on me. A part of me didn’t want to look at him, afraid of what I might see there—what they might confirm.

He had something to do with this.

I knew it like I knew my own name.