Bursting through the front doors, I hobble on my burning foot down the concrete stairs, where another student waits, presumably for his ride. The rest of our school’s courtyard is empty. If Copperhead chases after me, at least there’s one witness.

I take deep breaths, trying to slow my pulse. Not look so conspicuous. I’m halfway down the school’s wide semicircle of steps leading to the sidewalk when the guy at the bottom, who I suddenly notice wears a hooded sweatshirt beneath a jean jacket and some kind of baseball hat, tucks his cell away like I’ve caught him doing something. He starts to glance at me. Then stops. Instead, he seems to regard me out of the corner of his eye, but for whatever reason, he avoids turning around.

Tiny strands of hair bristle at the nape of my neck.

I stare at the back of this kid’s head as if I can see into his thoughts. Other than a creepy spider tattoo behind his right ear, nothing about him seems out of the ordinary. He’s just a kid who goes to my school, waiting for his ride.

A gust of wind blows sideways along the school’s brick façade. It whips my stringy blonde hair across my face and creates a dull hum in the air.

I’m being paranoid. Not every sketchy person I come across is in the Swarm. And I can’t exactly go back inside to Copperhead and whatever she’s doing to Amy London.

Rolling my shoulders back, I continue down the stairs, determined to walk two blocks to Division, where I can catch a cab. Get home. Lock my doors. Hide in bed beneath my comforter for the rest of my life.

Spider Tattoo pays no attention to me. When I pass, he looks away—a forced gesture.

I pick up the pace and continue walking with quick, uneven steps, vowing to slather Neosporin all over my cut and prop it for the rest of the afternoon if I make it home alive.

For whatever reason, I wish Ryan would do his thing where he appears out of nowhere. Walk with me till I catch a ride. Watch my back in case Copperhead sprints down the stairs after me or Spider Tattoo tries to gut me.

I turn around expecting to see Spider Tattoo listening to his music at the bottom of the steps, but instead I find him walking twenty or so paces behind me. He keeps his head down—definitely on purpose—and tucks his hands inside the pockets of his coat.

I hobble faster across the courtyard. Pressure builds in my chest. I think of what Ryan said about running. There’s no way I could run for my life if this kid starts chasing me.

A cab turns down the street. Just as I feel a twinge of hope, a black Escalade pulls in behind it.