Page 45 of The Knight

Heart pounding, I reach into my pocket for my phone—and remember, too late, that I left it in my room. I wanted to be alone to consider my next steps; I didn't want anything, including social media, to come between me and my thoughts.

The one time I forgot that I'm a member of Generation Z.

Running through the options, I realize that no one is going to come for me for quite some time. The groundskeeper checks on the wolves, sure, but I purposefully beelined away from their enclosure. Classes are going to start, and while my absences will be noted by the teacher, they'll probably assume I'm just another Coleridge kid playing hooky, at least until I don't come back to my room.

That's assuming, of course, that Holly notices me missing—and misses me. Other than quick hellos and goodbyes, we've barely spoken two words to each other most of this week, and we share a class together.

Closing my eyes, I go over the block schedule I got for this semester, trying to figure out if one of the teachers might notice me gone and actually report it as a problem instead of assuming it's just another skip day.

8:00-9:30 French I

9:35-11:05 Advanced Biology

11:10-11:45 Lunch

11:50-1:20 Intro to Economics

1:25-3:00 Music Study

Only the music teacher would be likely to notice me missing, because Mr. Hall, out of all my teachers, knows that I like the class. The others, I've been skimming by in at best all week, because I knew that I was going to take Hass down and possibly leave Coleridge forever afterwards. It didn't seem worthwhile to stand out in class or try to ace my first biology quiz when I knew the grades likely wouldn't matter.

Now that I'm stuck in a hole, reliant on my teachers caring that I'm gone to get out of it, I wish that I'd paid more attention.

It looks like I'll be getting myself out of this pit. Hopping on my good foot to the edges of it, I feel at the dirt. The walls of the hole are almost perfectly flat, as if created by a machine—and of course it probably was. No doubt the red ribbon I noticed on the tree outside was once part of a barrier tape warning students not to go further out.

Some jackasses who wanted to get drunk and high on campus without getting caught probably tore it down, leaving no visible signage for the rest of us to see and avoid any construction. The board that wobbled and broke beneath my feet came down here with me, the WARNING sign across it buried in pine needles.

Between this and the sewage in my room, I'll be signing a lot of agreements not to sue Coleridge. All that's left is a little food poisoning and I'll have the trifecta of on campus hazards at my disposal.

Sighing, I shove my hands into the wet earth, grateful that it's mixed with natural clay this deep, and try to get leverage to pull myself up. It's hard going—I've never had much upper body strength—but I manage to get myself up off the ground enough to shove my left foot into a similar toe hold in the earthen wall. Buoyant, I dare to stretch my twisted ankle out and push my toes against the earth, hoping to be able to push myself up enough that I can make it to the top.

My ankle screams at me almost immediately, and the pain is bad enough that I jerk back from the wall, hop down, and curse my own clumsiness yet again. If I make it out of this I'm enrolling in Coleridge's free yoga classes, held in the Coleridge Center every Thursday. Apparently I could use the improved coordination, stat.

For several long, impossibly lonely minutes, I try to pull myself up to no avail. Abandoning that, I tilt my head up towards the distant sky and yell, wishing the delinquents who tore down the caution tape would show up in the morning instead of the evening. Classes will start soon, and I want to wash all the mud I can off me before I have to show up and attempt to conjugate French verbs for over an hour.

Eventually even my throat is hoarse, and I start to wonder if anyone will notice me gone.

There's very little sun down here, so it's getting cold already. The damp invades my jacket and shirt. More and more by the second, my ankle throbs with mind-numbing pain.

Then I hear footsteps in the distance. The sound of someone jogging nearby. Clearing my throat, I start to yell for help. "Hey! I'm—" My throat dries up, and I have to stop to cough for a while. Long seconds are lost to my hacking. By the time I'm done, a whole minute has passed.

Frantic, I listen for the footsteps, but I can't hear them anymore. Whoever they are, they've moved on.

Despair sets in, and I close my eyes. The darkness on the back of my eyelids doesn't look that different from the darkness of the hole. Everything about it is all-consuming. It's stupid, because I know that someone will find me eventually, but I can't help but feel abandoned. Everyone leaves me. Silas. Dad. Mom. Everyone.

Just as the self-pity is really setting in, I hear a voice. "Hey! Can you reach up and grab my hand?"

Opening my eyes, I look up in disbelief. Holly's face is staring down at me, rimmed by the distant light of the cloud-covered sun. She's wearing her hair in a ponytail, just like the day we met, wireless earbuds tucked into her ears.

Getting down on her knees, she leans forward into the pit and reaches down for me. Her hand seems to bring the sun, and its warmth, with it.

"Grab my hand, Brenna."

"I don't know if I can," I confess.

"Try anyway." Urgently, she stretches out her fingertips. "I've got you."

Something rises in my throat, tasting like absolution. Taking a step forward, I gingerly put weight on my injured ankle, stretch onto my toes, and reach both hands up to clasp the warmth and strength Holly offers.

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