Hawkins Middle School looms ahead, a brutalist fortress of pale brick and frosted windows. The final bell rang ten minutes ago, and the parking lot is already emptying, cars coughing exhaust into the gray dusk.

You’re hovering by the bike racks, pretending to fiddle with a loose chain on your Huffy. You’ve been doing this for the past four days now—waiting until the coast is clear.

Waiting until he’s gone.

You stiffen. You’d know that voice anywhere. It’s the one that’s been living in your head since third grade, the one that makes your stomach do a slow, curling flip.

You turn, and there he is.