Eddie reached the fence, his eye tunnels aimed just in front of his toes. We stood right on the far side of the chain-link. All he had to do was tilt his head up an inch and he’d see us.

But instead he turned on his heel—a neat pivot like you see in the army when some junior officer is dismissed—and continued his course along the fence line. I exhaled.

We moved backward, keeping our eyes on him even as he continued his right-angle swivels through the trash zone. The dew-wet grass of right field shot up beneath the cuffs of my jeans, tickling my ankles. At last I felt the dirt of the infield beneath my boots and turned to face Creek’s Cause High. I realized now why Patrick had pointed us here. After a few school shootings swept through the heartland, the town council had voted to make the grounds as secure and contained as possible.

It was the only place in town that was completely fenced off.

Who’d have ever thought high school would be our last safe haven?

We spread out, breathing easier as we headed toward the dark, sprawling building. The football stadium loomed to the left. We reached the math-and-science wing first, Mrs. Wolfgram’s classroom at the near end. Cupping my hands like a scuba mask, I put my face to the window. The rows of empty desks inside looked emptier now. Proofs scribbled on the dry-erase board. Faded charts breaking down geometric 3-D shapes and surface areas. A dangling wooden octahedron made from eight equilateral triangles, an extra-credit project built by Janie Woodrow or, more likely, her overly involved mother. I thought about how competitive Janie always was, wearing down the teachers to turn her A-minuses into straight A’s, and how much I resented and envied that at the same time. A memory flashed at me, Don Braaten pinning Janie down in the middle of the road, his grown-man knee crushing into her back, her cheek smashed to the asphalt. Had there been tears? We were too far away to see, but Janie tended to cry easily.

I used to make fun of her for her color-coded Post-its, her collection of mechanical pencils, her flawless handwriting, and now I regretted every unkind word.

To my side, Patrick jiggled the handle of a service door. Locked.

“Should we break a window?” he asked.

“Too much noise,” Alex said. “What if they’re in there?”

Morning was coming on, leaving us visible here outside the building. Inside, everything was connected—classrooms, gym, cafeteria. A necessity for our harsh winters. If we could only get in there.

“Wait,” I said. “The back door by Dr. Chatterjee’s room might be unlocked. He has trouble with the key and dead bolt because of, you know, his hands.”