Mr. Mater slides his hands into his pockets and steps out from behind his desk. “If you give me a couple minutes, I can walk you out.”

I jam my notebooks into my canvas bag. “No, I’m fine.”

“Lia,” he says quietly. “You’ve been through quite a bit. It’s okay if you’re not fine.”

I wrap my thin beige cardigan around my torso. I should be used to it—adults always walking on eggshells, asking if I’m all right, like I’m a helpless, injured little bird, too weak to function. Mr. Mater has always been one of the few to treat me like everyone else—not the freak with the tragic backstory.

I consider saying, “It’s okay if you don’t force an unnecessary conversation.” But I find that kind of response invites adults to talk and pry more. Instead, with my books tight against my chest, I cast him a sideways glance and mutter an obligatory “bye” on my way out the door.

Mr. Mater gives me that familiar look of pity I’ve seen all day. I pick up my pace toward the main staircase, eager to get home and scrub away each of those looks with a long shower.

I head to the ground floor, trying to convince myself the guy who tried to kill me or save me or scare me—whatever he did or didn’t do—is not outside. More than once I’ve considered that he delivered my bag. So, what’s he doing now? Checking up on me? Does he know about the IP address?

I race down the stairs, trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter. Because the more I think about it, the more I’m certain I didn’t see him. He was a figment of my imagination. Not a hallucination. Just my eyes and my mind playing tricks on me.

I grip the rail, steadying myself, and pause on the last step. Relaxing my shoulders, I take three deep, meditative breaths until my heart rate steadies. I fumble for my inhaler, shoot the medicated mist into my lungs, relieving the tension in my chest. Then, I turn the corner.

When I hit the school’s main corridor, the hallway is near empty. I rehearse my statement and my saddened, comatose expression. But as I approach the front doors and peer out the window, I second-guess my game plan. Maybe I should call Katie to meet me around back with her car. I could sneak out, lose the cameras, escape.

Except Adam won’t find that IP address for me until I shut the media up. And if I wait too long, he might become preachy and decide that helping is somehow bad for me. Besides, if anyone is out to kill me—like the guy I didn’t see waiting for me in the courtyard—no one will do it on camera.