“Stop,” she says, searching the room. “What is that? What are you doing?”

All the girls start to make low, guttural moans. Claire’s stitches pop as her mouth opens wider. The screams grow. A medley of squeals and moans erupt from the corner.

Still on his back, Elliot watches Mrs. Green as decades of pent up repression bombard her. The old lady closes her eyes, writhing. “You filthy children. Quiet! QUIET!”

But the screams only grow louder, building to an unbearable fever pitch.

It’s too much. Too much even for me. In their screams, I feel the pain buried in these girls, the longing, the lives they’ll never experience. All those lost days rattle around in my brain.

Mrs. Green falls to her knees. Through clenched teeth, she mutters, “Quiet! Quiet!”

With frozen fingers, I finish freeing my leg and fall to the dirt floor. A few feet away, the whittle lies by a puddle of Jackson’s blood.

I wrap my fingers around it, rising to my feet. Mrs. Green is still hunched over, consumed by the dizzying voices. Giving it all I have, I lunge towards her. Mrs. Green’s eyes widen. She raises her arms, trying to defend herself, but I swing widely and drive the long pointy piece of steel right into Mrs. Green’s ear.

Thwip.

Mrs. Green’s body freezes. The girls’ screams slowly fade as Mrs. Green sways, the light leaving her eyes. Blood trickles from her eardrums and pours from her nostrils. She tilts to one side, toppling, her body thumping on the floor.

The girls stare blankly. Then, they do something I never would have expected. They giggle. Some of them point at Mrs. Green’s crumpled corpse, while others jump up and down. I watch them for a moment, horrified, and then grab a scalpel from the floor, cutting the stitching from my lips.

Rushing to Elliot, I press my hands over his clavicle, trying to stop the bleeding. He’s unconscious, his lips blue. I cradle him in my arms, thinking how I can make this right.

“El,” I say. “Please come back to me. Please.”

Running my hand through Elliot’s hair, I study the tips of his eyelashes and the shape of his chin, wanting to remember every detail when he’s still warm in my arms.

He’s barely breathing. I stroke his cheek and then press my ear to his chest, trying to listen for a heartbeat. Under his rib cage, a low thump echoes, and then dulls. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. “Please come back,” I whisper. “I can’t do this without you.”