Your locker door is open. Inside, a small, cracked mirror is taped to the metal, reflecting the chaos behind you. Your history textbook is half-shoved into your bag, next to Will’s forgotten art project—a charcoal sketch of a knight that he asked you to keep safe.

A figure cuts through the crowd, moving with a purpose that makes other students step aside. Nancy Wheeler’s usually neat hair is a little frizzy at the temples. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but not from tears. From anger.