Sunday morning brought a fragile, guarded relief. Sadie was awake, lucid, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic about her recovery, despite the unspoken prognosis hanging over them. But the relief was punctured by an absence: Martin was gone.

  A frantic call confirmed he was home, having discharged himself against the quiet worry of the nurses. The doctor assured them he was physically well enough, just needing to continue his medication. He’s safe, was the consensus, a mantra to soothe their nerves.

  But Martin, alone in the quiet house, did not feel safe. He felt like a bomb waiting in a drawer.

  Jennifer and Caleb arrived at the hospital, only to be redirected to his house. They found him there, but “found” was too strong a word. He was present, answering questions in monosyllables, his eyes fixed on some middle distance they couldn’t reach. He was a ghost haunting his own living room.

  When it was time to leave, Jennifer hovered by the door. “Are you… will you come to school tomorrow?”

  Caleb snorted. “Of course he won’t. Not after everything.”

  Martin looked up, his expression unreadable. “I’m not sure. I’ll go if I can.”

  The answer was neither yes nor no. It was a void. It made Jennifer’s skin crawl.

  ---

  Monday morning confirmed her dread. Martin’s seat was empty. The school day began without him, the absence a loud, screaming silence to her.

  In the hallway before first period, they saw Jeremy. He was a walking testament to a different kind of violence—his left arm in a cast and sling, a stark white plaster across the bridge of his nose. He saw them, and his eyes, above the bandages, burned with pure, impotent hatred before he shoved past into his classroom.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Did you do that?” Jennifer whispered to Caleb.

  “Compared to what he did to Martin?” Caleb’s reply was flat. “That’s nothing.”

  Jennifer shuddered, grateful she’d never mentioned Jeremy shoving her at the dance.

  Sitting in class, Jennifer couldn’t focus. She stared out the window, imagining Martin alone in that too-quiet house. And then the memory surfaced, sharp and chilling: The only things that’ll keep me from school now are a terminal illness, actual death, or the release of First Thunder Gate 2.

  It had been a joke. A stupid, hyperbolic joke. But now, with ‘terminal illness’ a confirmed reality and Martin missing…

  A cold certainty seized her. She stood up abruptly.

  “Miss Briggs?” the teacher said.

  “Bathroom!” Jennifer blurted, already moving. “Thank you!”

  She was out the door before permission was granted, leaving a bemused teacher and a chuckling class in her wake. Caleb watched her go, his own instincts ringing an alarm. This wasn’t about a bathroom.

  He found her sprinting across the schoolyard toward the gates. “Jen! Where are you going?”

  She didn’t stop. “To check on Martin. I have a bad feeling.”

  Caleb fell into step beside her, his long strides easily matching her run. “All you think about is Martin, Martin, Martin,” he grumbled, but there was no real anger in it, only a shared urgency. “I swear, if we get there and he’s just napping, you’re not gonna like what I do to you.”

  “You don’t have to come!” she shot back, but she was glad he was there.

  They reached the silent Cologna house. It felt empty. They called his name, searched the rooms, found nothing. The silence was oppressive.

  Outside, panic rising, Jennifer made a split-second decision. “You check the hospital again. I’ll look around here.” Her eyes fell on Martin’s bicycle, chained to the porch railing. “Wait—help me with this.”

  Caleb didn’t ask questions. He shrugged off his school bag, dropped it with a thud, unzipped it, and pulled out a small, wicked-looking hatchet.

  Jennifer stared for only a second. Why does he have an axe in his bag? The question was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was speed.

  Caleb wedged the blade against the chain links. Two sharp, metallic clangs later, the chain fell away. Jennifer didn’t thank him. She just swung her leg over the bike and pedaled away, the urgency a drumbeat in her chest.

  As she rode, the world blurred. The splash of a puddle under her tire triggered a memory, vivid and warm against the cold fear.

  She was five. A new dress, muddy and ruined by a passing car. Tears of utter devastation. Then a boy—small, with wide eyes—had walked over. He’d looked at her crying, then at the mud. Without a word, he’d scooped up a handful and smeared it on his own shirt, then laughed a bright, silly laugh. The absurdity of it had shocked her tears into a hiccup. She’d stared, then, tentatively, had decided not to cry either.

  Back then, she thought he was just being a funny kid. Now, she understood it as her first lesson from Martin Cologna: how to face a ruined thing without falling apart.

  I’ve never paid him back for that, she thought, legs pumping harder. Nothing I do is enough. So please… just be okay. Just wait for me. Let me be the one to make you smile today. Just this once. Please wait.

  The prayer was a silent scream against the wind as she raced toward the city, toward the river, toward any place a lost boy might go to finally stop running.