At the entry of the dining hall, chest heaving, I spotted Ingrid’s signature braid. She was at her usual table, where under the bench, my boots flagrantly hugged her feet.

I charged forward with the focus of a bombsight. One way or another, those shoes were coming off. The heat inside me burned, hot as flames from a gallon of gin. No doubt my face radiated feverish red. Any chattering at tables subsided as I strode past, giving way to inquisitive stares. I was like Arie at the assembly hall before the stampede, facing down a wretched bully. Fearless.

Stopping directly behind Ingrid, I drew the attention of the girls across from her. One gasped, another pointed. Ingrid twisted in her seat, and her expression morphed from curious to alarmed.

Breaths circled through my nose in the style of a bull in a pen. My fists were so tight my nails bit into my palms, still tender from my lashing.

Because of her.

Ingrid assessed our audience with a skittery gaze. Collecting herself, she attempted to scoff. “W-what in blazes are you doing?”

Had I been in a judicious state of mind, I might have answered her question. I might have publicized her crime and demanded my shoes. And whether she snidely refused or donned a veneer of innocence, I might have given her fair warning, even voiced a countdown to let her reconsider.

But no. I didn’t do any of those things.

I did, though, detect a voice in the background, echoey and faint, as if spoken through a tunnel. My name, I believe, though I couldn’t be certain. I was fixated on Ingrid’s eyes and the sight of them going impossibly wide, marking the instant I lunged.

What followed was a tornado of flailing arms and legs, grunts and shrieks, a braid in my grasp. All of it ended with a sharp yank to my collar, snug as a noose. I scrambled for traction, dragged by a grip. Pulled upright, I grabbed my collar to loosen it from my throat.

A male kitchen attendant in a white uniform had intervened. Tall and lean, he was keeping me from Ingrid, who cowered on the floor, flushed and bawling. Her crying was the only sound in the room, aside from the blood pumping in my ears.

Of all the girls in the dining hall, most stood in astonishment, though almost as many were whispering with gratified looks.

Mrs. Atwood tramped into the thick of it. At her command, a staff member guided Ingrid to rise and ushered the girl away—still in my boots. The vicious bully.

Or…was I that person now?

The director seemed to think so, peering down her nose at me. “Miss Vos, what in heaven’s name has gotten into you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.