You push the door open. Principal Thorne’s office is all dark wood and leather, smelling of old books and lemon polish. He isn’t alone. Slouched in the chair opposite his desk, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, is Zion Reeves.

Zion doesn’t look at you. He’s staring at a fixed point on the wall, jaw tight, one leg bouncing with restless energy. He’s wearing his varsity jacket, the leather worn at the elbows, and his knuckles are scraped raw.

He slides a folder across the desk towards you. Inside is a schedule and Zion’s most recent report card, a sea of Ds and Fs with a single, glaring A in Physical Education.

Zion finally turns his head. His eyes, a stormy gray, meet yours. There’s no anger in them, just a flat, exhausted resignation. And something else, flickering and quickly buried.