I woke up to Mom yelling I’m going to make her late, five minutes before we were supposed to leave. Now I’m crossing campus in the uniform I wore yesterday: wrinkled skirt, smelly blazer, with the exception of a pair of knee-high, navy tights. Nothing else, my makeup-free face and frizzy hair, gives the impression I tried.

The only reason I overslept in the first place is because I kept myself up thinking about the coin, trying to decide if I could ride the distance to Nacoma Knight on my bike, then deciding it was too dark to find something like that in the grass. I finally convinced myself I would locate it once I retraced my steps—either between the trees, at the football field, or maybe someone turned it into lost and found. I just hope it isn’t discovered by the wrong person, because there are people who want what I create.

There are people who want me.

But my plan to search campus before school is on hold as I increase my pace from a fast walk to a run in an effort to make it to class on time. The absence of the coin has burrowed into my chest, creating a perfect nest for anxiety, and whatever creature takes residence there is growing bigger and bigger as every second ticks by.

It’s okay, I tell myself, inhaling deep in an attempt to relieve the tension. I’ll search at lunch. It’s only a few more hours.

I reach Walcourt and round the corner, slamming into a body. I put my hands up and push away from the person, stumbling back.

“I’m so—” My apology dies on my lips when I see who I’ve run into—Thane Treadway. He smirks at me. I hold my breath to keep from inhaling his cigarette-infused scent. We stand apart, staring at each other. I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to break away.

After a moment, he speaks. “Maybe you should reconsider this whole school thing.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “Nacoma fosters obedience. You can’t even make it to class on time. Trust me, they notice when you don’t fit their mold.”

“I’m sure you know that from personal experience.” His smile remains unchanged, but his eyes glitter. Like he’s proud of that fact.

What does Thane know about me? I can fit into a mold. I’ve done it before. Stuffed myself into sharp corners and uneven surfaces. And I fit. Until I didn’t. Until an arm came free from its binding and the thread unwound and ruined everything.

That’s what doesn’t fit in the mold. The thread.

“Or maybe you want to be bad at this,” Thane says, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe you like the attention.”