Grunting, I roll onto my back and brush the hair from my face. I can almost hear the panic in his voice as I scroll through the texts he’s fired off in rapid succession.

Broke into attendance. Why rn’t u @ school?

What happened last nite?

LIA!!! Where r u??

Googled u. READ ur ditching school today.

Our friendship has hit a new low.

It’s 10:15. Adam’s in the middle of English class, breaking into the school’s attendance records, texting me, and likely pissing off Mrs. Greenberg. Knowing Adam, he’s not discreet about it either.

taking a personal day.

Seconds after I hit send, Adam texts back: Something I should no b4 press. BFF rights!!

I chuck my phone at the lump of covers. I love Adam, but I’m not getting into it with him right now. He doesn’t understand failure. How heavy that weight can feel. How it threatens my sanity.

I had pictures of the Swarm—of Lip Spikes. Despite his hood and glasses, I caught his face when he lifted his head. Lip Spikes should be locked in a county jail.

If I would’ve chucked my phone into Lake Michigan, the pics would still be online. I should’ve planned a better escape. Or used a stolen card to sign in to the computers at the library.

I shove a pillow over my face and scream. It’s muffled and strangled—not like Dopney’s. When he cried out for help, it was terror-stricken, like he knew he was going to die.

And I did nothing.

Sounds of the attack trickle into my head: Tourists shrieking. The Swarm cheering. Dopney wailing, howling in the center of the pit.

I bite the cotton fabric and sob into it. I picture Dopney’s face—the one shown in all the news reports. Dark hair and scruff. Bright blue eyes. And his smile. That smile haunts me most. Dopney looked like the friendly type. I bet he went out of his way for people—offered them rides, gave money to the homeless, walked his neighbor’s dogs when they were out of town. He wouldn’t have stood forty feet away while someone was getting pummeled to death and allowed it to happen.

The pain of it all writhes inside me as I cry like a five-year-old who’s fallen off her bike. Like Dopney’s family is probably crying over his unconscious body. Like I cried two years ago when some nameless doctor in teal scrubs pronounced my dad dead.

After my dad’s death, I cried every night for months. I became skittish. Couldn’t handle being alone. I’d go days without showering to avoid the reeling thoughts.

I promised myself I’d never be that girl again. And despite everything that’s happened in the last several days shoving me toward that breaking point, that’s one promise I still will not break.