I don’t spare a moment to look back. I bolt away from the house. I run fast, then faster, not even glancing behind me when I hear the rat-a-tat of footsteps chasing me. Though just for a second, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a shockingly tall, skinny Black man wearing a red tracksuit and loads of gold chains. Retro man, I recognize. The guy from Angelique’s school who’s dressed like a time capsule from 2002.
There’s a look on his face. A warning.
I add a fresh burst of speed just as a gunshot splits the air. Followed by another.
I dodge left, hunching my shoulders to make myself as small a target as possible as I pound down the sidewalk, gasping through my tears. Another left, another right. Keep on trucking. Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.
Paul, I think wildly. Then the giant hole in my chest gapes open, and I run through that, too. Faster, faster, faster.
Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.
I run so fast my tears dry before they can stain my cheeks. I race so hard I’m not even in this city, but somewhere far away where the trees are sinister shadows and the moon is snatching at my hair and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the sheer terror.
Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.
Next thing I know, I’m plowing into the Dunkin’ Donuts, where my new friends are staring at me.
“Call the police, call the police, call the police!” I scream at Charadee.
Which she does, except I don’t remember the rest; I’m crying too hard, my mind a wreck of then and now, what was and what is. What will never be again.
Eventually Lotham bursts through the door. He takes one look at my devastated face and pulls me into his arms.
“Paul,” I sob hysterically against his chest.
He lets me collapse against him, and holds me as I weep.