Rose’s eyes soften and she lets out a small huff. “Fine, I won’t push about today. But next time I’m dragging you along,” she says as she heads down the hallway to the front door. When she reaches it, she turns back and adds, “I’ll ask my dad about the City Art Program while he’s driving me home. I’ll call you if I get any news.”

“Don’t—”

The door bangs shut, cutting off anything else I might have said.

I watch through the window until their car pulls away from the curb. Once it is gone, I go to the freezer and dig behind the frozen foods for the page with the word “VERIFY.” Everything I’ve ever been taught tells me to take the paper to a recycling center, but I don’t want the money or, more important, the recognition that might come from turning it in. I just want it and all the problems the gang tried to cause me gone.

I turn the dial on the stove, watch the burner ignite with a circle of blue-and-orange heat, and touch an edge of the fragile paper to the flame. It takes two tries before the orange flicker glows and begins to consume the page, leaving a curling trail of black in its wake. I dump the paper into a large pot and watch as the faded red letters slowly turn into black-and-gray char. When there is nothing left but smoldering remnants, I put the pot under the sink and run water until all evidence of VERIFY and the page on which it was delivered are washed into the pipes and carried away, leaving behind only a campfire smell.

When the pot is dried and stowed in the cabinet, I take my backpack and go upstairs, determined to move on. Mr. Webster said he was going to talk to the school and the police and make all of this go away.

There was nothing left to worry about. It was all over.

I pull off my uniform, glad that I don’t have to wear it again for the next few months, and change into faded yellow shorts and a white-and-red shirt. With several hours until my father comes home and no homework or studying to do, I pull out my tablet and sit on the bench next to my window to work on my mother’s painting. But no matter what I try I can’t seem to focus. All I can think about is the gang Mr. Webster talked about and the way the flame consumed the water-stained page.

Guilt snakes through my chest and squeezes.

Could my destroying the note prevent the police from finding the gang that’s causing so many problems for the city?

The idea that there’s a group out there threatening people is scary, mostly because, until Mr. Webster told us, I had no idea. I’d heard about the explosion near the lake. A faulty gas line was the explanation. And the train going off the tracks stopped travel on the Blue Line for a few hours. Some of the teachers had trouble getting to school, but otherwise it wasn’t a big deal, which makes this all hard to believe. No one I know thinks things are more dangerous in the city. Riding around on my bike yesterday didn’t feel any different from the way it had before. And the guy who gave me the slip of paper was more surprising than threatening. He certainly didn’t seem like someone who would be capable of any kind of violence.