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On the other side of the window, the boy twists his head at an angle that has to hurt. His eyes meet mine again. I thought my heart couldn’t beat any faster, but it does.

I remind myself he can’t see me.

How can he be so defiant after that?

How can he be so unbroken?

How can he risk it?

“You’re nothing,” the man repeats. “You’re nothing to anyone. Nobody can fix you. Nobody should waste their time.”

Tears stream down my cheeks and behind me the guard shifts his weight. I stay perfectly still. Desperate for this to be over.

Don’t move.

Don’t move a muscle.

I don’t know how long it goes on.

At some point, I realize I’m back in the dorm, sleeping with my arm out over the side of the bed. It’s not comfortable. My arm usually falls asleep.

But it doesn’t matter how uncomfortable it is. That’s the rule. We have to keep an arm out so?—

I don’t really know why. Probably so that it’s hard to sleep. Or so they can drag us out of bed easier.

I don’t know I’ve fallen asleep until the man I’ve never met shakes my shoulder, forcing me to wake. His face is mostly in shadows, but I know him. My heart races once again, like waking up from a terror.

“You’ll give in,” he says, obviously not caring if he wakes up the rest of the people in the dorm. “We’ll win in the end. We always win. Why is that?”

My mouth is dry, but he won’t leave until he has an answer.

“Because I’m worthless.”

“That’s right. You’re worthless, and you’re not going to win.”

He stands and leaves me there, terrified and unable to think of anything other than what I did to the boy. It’s my fault. Never again.

Never. Ever. Again.

DEAN

The grime that covers my hands adds to my annoyance.

I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like when my hands are dirty at all, but?—

It’s not oil or grease from the shop. It’s not even dirt on my hands from pulling weeds out of the ground at my house.

It’s blood.

I hold my hands up in front of my face. There’s not much light—just a streetlight and the moon—but the streaks all over my hands look black. My heart beats a bit faster at the realization.

That’s blood.

There’s more of it all over me. On my jeans and my shirt. I pat my face. Blood on my face, too, but I don’t think it’s mine.

I checked myself over. No wounds. I’m sore, but nobody stabbed me or shot me. I’m sure I would feel that.

Where did the blood come from? There’s a faint light that spills into the alley way. I look around as my vision clears, searching for clues.