“You didn’t feel sorry for him,” Sawyer says, and suddenly he’s on the ground again, the aura sucking back into his pores and follicles, burying under his skin. It’s a flush in his pale cheeks, a glow in his pimples. “Maybe you shouldn’t have so much power if you can’t stop people from dying.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you bothering me?”

“Because maybe you should give up your body to someone who knows how to use it.” He tilts his head at me, robot-like, his eyes pure math and no empathy. “Yes, yours would be a good body for me.”

It must be his final statement, because he’s walking away. A breeze whistles harshly in his wake, spinning up a storm of leaves. The bloody side of his head folds in and out of the air as it moves and he moves.

No motion in his arms or upper body—just a hunch in his shoulders. He takes baby steps forward until he phases through the brick wall, gone as quickly as he appeared.

Jake

There are less than a thousand students at St. Clair, but the hallways always feel tense and overcrowded.

There’s a rising commotion of voices responding to some shouting. Up ahead, more people are gathered in one circle than usual. There’s a fight going on . . . There’s a fight going on? That’s rare for St. Clair, to have people with their phones held up in a circle like this.

I run up to the crowd, eager to see two people beating the shit out of each other. I guess it’s just cathartic to see something new.

What I find are Benji and Chad in hand-to-hand combat. Benji throwing a punch into Chad’s nose, drawing blood. Chad grabbing Benji’s shirt to throw him into a locker.

Someone blocks my view and snaps to get my attention. “While I would have preferred if you came to me personally, I’m glad I know now.” Mahalia. She’s always put together and smiling, but today her eyes are flames behind her high-perched glasses, her red lips pursed with indignation. “Just tell me, Jake. Why? Why did you upload this?”

She holds out her phone to me like it’s a dirty artifact she’ll have to drop in a plastic bag. A video plays from . . . my abandoned TikTok account? My profile picture is the one from my school ID card. A year old. I barely do pictures, and I definitely don’t do social media. I’d much rather zone out to an album or draw something. I haven’t logged into that account in months.

So then how did the video from our security feed get on there and get seven hundred views overnight?

“I . . . I didn’t do this,” I stammer.

“Um, Jake?” Mahalia’s eyes widen with a slow nod. “It looks like you did!”