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The day of the fire

JUST BEFORE DAWN, Emma dreams about her sister.

Claire’s standing on a hill of snow, wearing a wool hat bright as blood.

She’s trying to tell Emma something, but the wind snatches away her voice.

Emma, barefoot for some reason, tries to run toward her sister, but she keeps breaking through the snow’s crust. Stumbling. Falling.

Emma wakes before she reaches Claire, heart pounding like she’s actually been running.

Tears sting the corners of Emma’s eyes as reality sinks in. Every morning the loss of Claire settles into her chest with a dark, familiar heaviness.

Sometime after nightfall, Emma lay down on the lumpy bed. For the first time in weeks, she slept through the night. Maybe knowing that she’s nearly done—that everything’s almost over—allowed her to finally relax.

Emma gets up and brushes her teeth. She’s still in her clothes, and though she lost one of her socks in the bed, she doesn’t feel like looking for it. She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, slips on her shoes, and hitches her backpack onto her shoulders.

She buys a granola bar from the vending machine and nibbles at it as she walks back toward Ridgemont Academy.

It’s 6:45. The sun’s barely peeking over the horizon.

Fog obscures the shapes of buildings, turns birch trees into ghosts.

As she nears campus, her steps get slower.

Her feet feel like they’re made of lead.

Ridgemont was supposed to be a haven: a safe, beautiful place where eager students were taught by accomplished teachers. Where bright young minds were nurtured, strong characters were formed, and the love of learning was fostered.

But it was all such bullshit, wasn’t it?

Ridgemont Academy was Type A indoctrination.

It didn’t teach math or biology so much as it taught students that being the best, no matter what that took, was the only thing that mattered.

And if striving to be the best stressed you out, or made you unhappy, then you were weak.

You didn’t deserve all that you’d been given.

She could be as angry at her father as she wanted to be, but the truth is that she is a product of Ridgemont—and she is going to redefine success.

To evade detection by the school’s security cameras, Emma avoids the main entrance and doubles back, entering Beecher Forest on the north side of the campus.

The woods are full of twisting, narrow paths.

Some were made by white-tailed deer, others by students looking for secluded spots to drink contraband beer and make out with their crushes.

Twigs snap softly under her sneakered feet. The forest is spooky, but she clings to the safety of its cover for as long as possible.

She reaches the edge of the Ridgemont meadow just as the pink of dawn is climbing into the sky. On the other side is the cluster of buildings known as Art North; it includes the theater, the concert space, the ceramics studio, and Foster Hall, the media arts building—where the Wi-Fi is strongest.

A wave of relief washes over her. She’s so close. It can all end.

She walks across the dewy meadow, moving swiftly but casually—like she’s out for a morning stroll. A robin makes a warning call and flutters up from the grass.

She’s halfway to the other side when a voice calls out. “Emma? Emma Blake! Stop right there!”