His jaw looked tight. His mouth thin and firm. For a moment I thought he was holding it together for me like he always did. But then I noticed that he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Alex.

And she was looking back at him. I didn’t think it was possible for her to seem more upset than she had when Britney died, but she held herself now as if her body were hollow, as if her insides had crumbled away.

I knew she felt that way because I felt that way myself.

Eve traced where I was looking and stepped forward in line. “I’m so sorry, Chance,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I said, and turned back around quickly so she couldn’t see me bite my lip. I reached down, and sure enough, Cassius was there, his black muzzle pointed up at me. I scratched at his scruff beneath the collar the way he always loved, and he tilted into me. “Good boy,” I said. “Good, good boy.” It was all I could do to hold myself together.

Finally I arrived at the front of the line. I had to fight to keep my voice from cracking when I spoke to Dr. Chatterjee. “July fourth,” I said. “Not sure what time.”

“Thank you, Chance,” he said. “I seem to recall you were born in the morning.”

I went and took my seat on the bleachers with the others. After a while Alex came and sat next to me.

“Hey, Blanton,” I said.

“Hey, Little Rain.”

It made me smile, which I’m sure was her intent. “I hate when you call me that,” I said.

She leaned over, gave me a playful bump with her shoulder. “Yup.” But it was sad, too. There was nothing more to say, really. It was just a way of reaching out, of connecting. We were united in that moment as the two people who cared the most about Patrick. And about what was gonna happen to him.

A while later—though we tried not to notice how much later—my brother joined us on the bleachers. Together we listened to Chet give his birthday in a trembling voice.

Ben hopped up onto one of the middle bleachers and started pacing across it. The front of his shirt was stiff with dried blood from where he’d wiped his hands. “Look,” he said, “the first thing to figure out is who’s in charge. And I think it’s pretty clear who’s protected us the best so far.” The heel of his hand rested on the stun gun tucked in his waistband.

“Dr. Chatterjee’s in charge,” I said.

Ben cast his broken gaze over at me. “Dr. Chatterjee,” he said, “can’t hold a gun. Not with that grip.”

A lot of the kids looked taken aback. We’d heard students be rude to teachers before, but we’d never seen one be so dismissive before.