A flicker of surprise crossed Jeremy’s face, then it twisted into a cruel smile. “Oh, he wants to fight back. That’s nice. Let’s see how long you last.”

  He lunged. Martin, fueled by adrenaline and despair, moved with a frantic, desperate agility. He ducked a wild swing from Jeremy, sidestepped a grab from one friend, his movements less like skill and more like a cornered animal’s last-ditch reflexes.

  “Look at him go!” Jeremy taunted, breathing harder. “You really are good at running, aren’t you?”

  In a burst of blind rage, Martin saw an opening. He didn’t think—he swung. His fist connected with Jeremy’s mouth with a solid, wet crack. Jeremy staggered back, a hand flying to his lip, which came away smeared with blood.

  He stared at the red on his fingers, then at Martin, his eyes wide with shock before narrowing into pure malice. “Oh. He can hit back, too. That’s real nice.”

  Before Martin could register the small victory, a third boy, who had been hanging back, rushed from the shadows. His foot shot out, connecting squarely with Martin’s lower back. Pain exploded through his spine, sending him stumbling forward, off-balance, directly into Jeremy’s waiting fist.

  The blow to his gut drove every ounce of air from his lungs. He hit the pavement hard, the world graying at the edges as he curled around the agony.

  Gasping, he pushed himself up. One hand pressed to his burning stomach, the other braced on the ground. He stood, swaying, and raised his fists again. The stance was pathetic now, a trembling parody of defiance.

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  Jeremy stared, incredulous. “Why aren’t you running? It’s three on one! Why. Aren’t. You. Running?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “You think you can win? You think you’re better than me? You’re not. I came first. I got the top scholarship spot. I rule this school. And look at you!” He gestured at Martin’s battered, punch-stained form. “You’re nothing. A dead man can’t be better than anyone. Oh, that’s right… I heard. You’re dying.”

  He spread his hands, offering a twisted bargain. “Here’s the deal. You run away right now, like you always do. Or you stay, and we make what’s coming for you come a whole lot faster. Your choice.”

  Martin looked at their faces, flushed with cruel excitement. He thought of the empty future that stretched before him—a blank, terrifying page. He thought of people with real futures, with hope, like Jeremy, who still took and took. Why? The question echoed in the hollow place inside him. Why take from someone who has nothing left?

  The absurdity of it all hit him. He started to chuckle, a low, broken sound in his chest. Maybe I should write a death diary. Document the thrilling conclusion.

  Jeremy’s foot connected with his ribs, sending him back to the ground. Pain flared, white-hot. Again, Martin pushed himself up. Again, he faced them.

  But the fight was gone, replaced by a profound, weary emptiness. “I don’t want to fight,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “If nothing comes from it… if the happy people just take whatever they want… then I’m done.”

  He let his fists fall to his sides, the final surrender. Then he turned and ran.

  “Hey! We’re not done!” Jeremy yelled, but Martin was already sprinting down the dark street, pain screaming in his side with every footfall.

  The chase was on. Tears streamed from his eyes, mixing with the smeared mascara, creating black trails that flew from his face and scattered into the night air like drops of ink. He ran until his lungs felt like they were full of broken glass, until Jeremy’s shouts grew distant. He heard Jeremy call to his friends, “Forget it! That’s the Burnside Alley area up ahead. Not worth it.”

  The footsteps behind him ceased.

  Martin staggered into the mouth of a narrow, foul-smelling alley. He collapsed against a large dumpster, sliding down to sit amidst the grime and discarded wrappers. He was at a dead end, literally and figuratively, a high wall of corrugated zinc sealing the alley’s far side.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged, sobbing breaths. Then, voices. Muffled, coming from behind the zinc wall.

  “…so the Mayor’s government refuses to change their ways, huh?” a gruff voice said. “We pay taxes that just fatten their bellies. No jobs. Prices sky-high. And this damn plague picking us off one by one…”

  Martin froze, his own pain forgotten. He held his breath, listening as a plan, born of desperation and rage, was whispered into the cold night air on the other side of the wall.