You were late. You hated being late almost as much as you hated driving yourself, and today you’d had to do both. Your knuckles were still white from gripping the steering wheel.

Through the shifting forest of backpacks and letterman jackets, you saw her. Chloe. Leaning against a bank of lockers, surrounded by her usual court. She was laughing at something her friend Sasha said, head thrown back, the strong line of her throat exposed.