The alarm on my phone blares from the nightstand, and the pale gray light of early autumn seeps through my curtains.

It's the first day back at Crestwood High, and the air already feels too still. Too quiet.

My phone screen lights up with a string of notifications from the group chat—memes, outfit checks, someone complaining about first period biology.

Through the window, the street outside looks normal. Neighbors walking their dogs. A car idling at the stop sign.

But as I watch, a girl across the street stumbles. Just for a second. She coughs into her elbow, mutters something, and keeps walking.

Probably nothing.